Dead Perfect (21 page)

“He’s a vampire,” Hewitt said. “I’ve destroyed enough of them to know.”

Shannah stared at him. She had known he was a hunter but hearing him admit to killing vampires was unnerving.

“What about you?” she said, speaking to Overstreet. “Are you a vampire hunter, too?”

“No, I’m a freelance reporter, like I said. The interview I did with you appeared in a couple of the magazines I work for. I’ve also been doing a weekly series on vampires which wasn’t going anywhere until I met Jim, here. He promised me an interview with your vampire before he takes his head.”

Shannah stared at Overstreet, her stomach churning at the image his words conjured in her mind.

And then she frowned.

And then she laughed. “So, you two plan to capture Ronan and render him helpless, and then you expect him to give you an interview before you kill him?”

She laughed again. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Of course, Overstreet might get a good story out of it before Ronan has the two of you arrested for assault.”

Overstreet looked at Hewitt, his expression worried. “Maybe he isn’t a vampire.”

“Of course he is. You told me so yourself!”

Overstreet shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“Well, I’m not wrong,” Hewitt said, bristling. “He’s a bloodsucker and I aim to take him out.”

Overstreet canted his head to one side. “How many vampires have you killed?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question. How many? One? Five? Ten?”

“Twelve. This one will make lucky thirteen.”

“So,” Overstreet said, looking slightly mollified, “what do we do now?”

“We wait for him to come to us.” Hewitt looked at Shannah and grinned. “We’ve got something he wants.”

Ronan woke to a stillness that told him he was alone in the house.

Rising, he showered and changed clothes, then went into his office. Booting up the computer, he wondered where Shannah had gone. Shopping, perhaps, or maybe she had just felt the need to get out of the house for a while. He couldn’t expect her to stay in the house twenty-four hours a day. Though they had discussed having her keep his hours, it hadn’t worked out too well, though she was going to bed later and sleeping later all the time.

He wrote steadily, his mind focused on his work in progress. It had been days since he had found the time to write and he quickly lost himself in the story, the words flowing almost faster than he could type them. For this moment in time, he was the hero. He was the heroine. He was the villain. The world he had created from his imagination was more real, more tangible, than the solid walls that surrounded him. He finished one chapter and began the next.

It was only when his hunger began to stir that he glanced up at the clock, surprised to find that he had been writing for almost four hours.

When he reached the end of the next chapter, he saved his work and shut down the computer, the first hint of worry rising in his mind when he realized that Shannah had not yet returned home.

Leaving his office, he went into the living room, snarling softly when he caught the scents of Hewitt and Overstreet. Muttering an oath, he took a deep breath. The two men had been in his house recently. Why hadn’t he noticed it sooner? He knew the answer even as the question surfaced in his mind. He had been so lost in his work that the house could have gone up in flames and he probably wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late.

Opening the front door, he followed Hewitt’s scent out to the curb, noting that Shannah’s scent was strong here, as well.

He swore again, his anger rising quietly within him. The fools had taken her and for that they would die.

“Hewitt!” Overstreet called, a hint of panic in his voice. “Hewitt, come here!”

“What’s wrong?” Jim Hewitt turned away from the kitchen table where he had been methodically sharpening several stout wooden stakes.

“Come here and take a look at the girl.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. She looks…” Overstreet shook his head. “I think she’s…dead.”

“What?” Knocking his chair over in his haste, Hewitt ran into the living room. He dropped down on one knee in front of the sofa and grabbed Shannah’s hand. Turning it over, he pressed his fingertips to her wrist, feeling for her pulse. “Dammit! What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything! One minute she was sitting there on the sofa, glaring at me like I was the devil incarnate, and the next she just sort of keeled over.”

Hewitt swore again.

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” Hewitt said, gaining his feet. “She’s unconscious, though. Dammit!”

Rising, Overstreet reached for his coat.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve got to get her to a hospital.”

“In the middle of the night?” Hewitt asked. “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“So, what do you want to do? Just let her die?”

Hewitt raked a hand through his hair. It was time to cut his losses and admit defeat. They could drop the girl off at the nearest hospital and then hightail it out of town.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled his pockets with several vials of holy water, made sure his crucifix was in place and visible, then picked up four of the wooden stakes.

“Bring the girl,” he said, striding toward the front door.

Carl Overstreet grunted softly as he lifted Shannah into his arms.

Hewitt snatched the car keys off the table; then, keys in one hand and a stake held firmly in the other, he opened the door, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Overstreet asked, coming up behind him.

Hewitt swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he glanced into the distance and saw a pair of blood-red eyes looking back at him. “He’s out there.”

Overstreet swore and took several hasty steps backward. “What do we do now?”

Hewitt slammed the door and turned the lock. “I wish I knew.”

“Hewitt!” The vampire’s voice, edged with preternatural power and authority, cut through the night. “Bring her to me.”

“Do I look like a fool?” Hewitt shouted.

“You have one chance,” the vampire warned. “Bring her to me now.”

“Go to hell, you bloodsucker.” Hewitt’s eyes widened as Carl Overstreet, still carrying Shannah, walked zombie-like toward the door. “Overstreet, what the devil are you doing?”

Overstreet didn’t answer, just kept walking toward the door, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack.

“Overstreet, snap out of it!” Hewitt stepped in front of the newspaperman and slapped him in the face, once, twice. “Carl!”

Overstreet blinked. “What happened?”

“He’s playing with your mind. You’ve got to shut him out.”

The vampire’s voice rang out in the night. “Bring her to me!”

“Maybe we can make a trade,” Overstreet called, a note of desperation in his voice. “The girl for an interview.”

“Interview!” Hewitt exclaimed. “Our lives are on the line and you’re still worried about that stinkin’ interview?”

Overstreet shrugged. Staggering slightly, he returned to the sofa and lowered Shannah onto it.

“What kind of interview?” Ronan asked.

Overstreet and Hewitt exchanged glances as they realized the vampire was on the porch now, with nothing but the door standing between them.

“For one of the magazines I write for,” Overstreet replied. “What do you say?”

“Make it quick.”

Overstreet grabbed his notebook and a pencil out of his coat pocket, then dragged a kitchen chair close to the front door and sat down. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“Five hundred and thirteen years.”

“How many people have you killed in that time?”

“A hundred, maybe more, not counting the two of you.”

Overstreet swallowed hard. “How did you become a vampire. Was it voluntary?”

“No. I was brought across by another vampire against my will.”

“Are there many vampires in the United States?”

“More than you want to know.”

“How about in the rest of the world?”

“We are everywhere,” Ronan said curtly. “There have been vampires since the beginning of time.”

“Where did the first vampire come from?”

“No one knows for sure. Some say the first man to become a vampire was a man who refused to die. He called up the devil and offered to trade his soul for immortality. Some say the man’s name was Vlad Tepes.”

“Do you think that’s true? That Vlad the Impaler was really a vampire?”

“It’s possible.”

“This is priceless,” Overstreet said, scribbling furiously.

“Is it worth your life?” Hewitt asked dryly. “Because that’s what it’s going to cost you if she dies before you’re through.”

But Overstreet wasn’t thinking about that now. The reporter in him had taken control. Newspapermen had often sacrificed their lives for a good story, and this was the story of a lifetime. “Have you ever made anyone into a vampire?”

“No.”

“Do you know how it’s done?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

Overstreet cleared his throat. “She said you’re the romance writer. Is that true?”

“I grow weary of your questions, mortal. Bring me the girl.”

“And what happens if I do?”

“You should be more worried about what will happen if you don’t.”

“We think the girl is dying,” Hewitt said. “We were going to take her to the hospital, but I’m not coming outside as long as you’re here.”

“She is ill. Bring her to me now. I will not harm you this night.” Ronan forced the words between clenched teeth. “I swear it on her life.”

“What about tomorrow night?” Hewitt asked.

“I grow weary of this,” Ronan snarled. “Her time is running out. And so is yours.”

“Give him the girl,” Overstreet urged. “If she dies, he’ll hunt us down for sure.”

Hewitt swore under his breath. “Back away from the porch and I’ll bring her out.”

Overstreet peered out the window. “He’s gone.”

Hewitt snorted as he lifted Shannah into his arms. “Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.”

“Well, it’s a chance we’re gonna have to take.”

“Open the door.”

With a hand that trembled, Carl Overstreet unlocked the door, then ducked out of sight, his notebook clutched in his fist.

Hewitt took a deep breath, then stepped across the threshold. Kneeling, he placed Shannah on the porch, then darted back into the house.

Overstreet slammed the door and locked it, then sagged against the jamb. “Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he asked, then jumped as Ronan’s voice rang out in the night.

“I always keep my word. You are safe. For tonight.”

Hewitt slumped against the front door. Damn, that had been a close one.

“That’s it for me,” Overstreet said, shoving his notebook into his coat pocket. “First thing in the morning, I’m outta here.”

“You intend to let him go, just like that?”

“Damn straight! I’m no vampire hunter. I got what I came for. From now on I’m writing about safer topics, like terrorists and serial killers. I don’t know about the other vampires you’ve killed. Maybe they weren’t as powerful as this one. Maybe you just got lucky with them, I don’t know. But I know one thing, if you go after this guy, you’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind.”

“Then I’m out of my mind.”

Overstreet nodded. “I’ll be sure to spell your name right when I pen your obituary.”

Muttering an oath, Jim Hewitt pushed away from the door. Maybe Overstreet was right. Maybe it was time to quit the field while he still could. He had been hunting vampires his entire adult life and what had it got him? He had a small house he hadn’t seen in months, a car with over two hundred thousand miles on it, and a suitcase. No family. No time for a girlfriend. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a date.

Maybe it was time to give it up. The pay wasn’t that great, considering that he put his life on the line every time he went after one of the Undead. He couldn’t kill them all. He laughed bitterly. He sure as hell couldn’t kill the one he was after now. Not that he had really tried, he admitted sheepishly. And as long as he was being honest with himself, he might as well admit that Ronan scared the crap out of him. It wasn’t something he could tell Overstreet, but just thinking about going up against Ronan one-on-one sent cold chills down his spine. There was something about this vampire that frightened him. Maybe it was just the fact that Ronan was so old. Vampires didn’t weaken as they aged. Quite the opposite. They grew stronger, faster, more deadly with each passing year.

He blew out a sigh. Dammit, he wasn’t a quitter! If he walked away now…he shook his head. If he walked away now, he was no more than a coward.

“Is he gone?” Overstreet asked.

Hewitt switched on the porch light, then peered out the window. There was no sign of the girl, or the vampire. “Looks like he’s taken her.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here while we can,” Overstreet said. “I don’t want to be here if he comes back tomorrow night.”

With a nod, Hewitt unlocked the front door and stepped outside. Overstreet joined him moments later, his eyes wide and scared as he glanced from side to side.

Sliding behind the wheel of his car, Hewitt switched on the engine, wondering if he had completely lost his nerve for the hunt. And what he would do if he had.

Cradling Shannah in his arms, Ronan transported the two of them to his house, materializing inside Shannah’s bedroom. He drew back the covers and put her to bed. She was pale, so pale. And cold. He drew the covers over her, stroked a lock of hair from her brow. Her heartbeat was slow and unsteady, her face was deathly pale, her breathing shallow and labored.

Her time had run out.

Kneeling beside her, he lifted her head, then bit into his wrist and held it to her mouth. “Drink, love,” he coaxed.

She was too weak to argue.

He spoke to her while she drank, telling her that he loved her, begging her to fight, to tell him what he should do.

He felt the blood flowing out of him, knew she was taking far more than she ever had before. He waited for her color to improve, for her breathing to return to normal, for her heartbeat to become regular. Waited, and then waited some more, but there was no change, no visible improvement. He recalled telling her that he couldn’t keep her alive forever, but he had hoped his blood would prolong her life for years to come instead of just a few months.

“Shannah. Shannah, love, what would you have me do?”

She moaned softly. Her lips moved, as if she was trying to speak, and then she was still once more.

Her heartbeat was faint, so faint that even with his preternatural senses, he could scarcely hear it.

“Shannah!” He was losing her. He could feel her slipping away with each labored breath. “I can’t let you go. I can’t, and I won’t!”

And yet, how could he bring her across? She had told him time and again that she didn’t want to be a vampire, that she didn’t want to survive by drinking blood.

“Do you want to die?” he asked, knowing she could no longer hear him. “Is that what you want?”

Rising, he paced the floor, his frustration growing with each step he took as her heartbeat grew slower, fainter.

How could he bring her across without her consent?

How could he let her go?

He tried to imagine his existence without her, but it was no use. She had become a part of him, as necessary to his survival as avoiding the sun.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew her into his arms. Tears stung his eyes as he murmured, “Shannah, love, forgive me.”

And then he bent his head to her neck, his eyes closing as his fangs pierced the tender flesh of her throat. And all the while, he despised himself for the overwhelming sense of pleasure that spread through him as he drank her life and her memories, her hopes and her dreams. He drank it all, hating himself as he did so, praying as he had not prayed in centuries that she would forgive him.

He gazed down at her, fear striking his heart. She was on the very brink of death now. Had he left her enough to survive the change? With a cry of despair, he savaged his wrist again and pressed the bleeding wound to her lips.

“Drink, Shannah,” he urged, his tears dampening her cheeks. “You must drink. Now. Hate me if you must for what I’ve done, but please, love, don’t leave me to walk the earth without you on it.”

She lay still and pale in his arms, her heartbeat so faint now it was all but undetectable.

“Drink, Shannah! Dammit, you will do as I say!” he commanded, pleased when, ever so slowly, her mouth closed over his wrist. Smiling faintly, he stroked her hair. “Drink, my love. Drink, and live.”

He closed his eyes as she took what she needed. And there was pleasure in the giving, even more so than in the taking. If she needed every drop of his blood to survive, then so be it. He would gladly give up his existence to extend hers. He had lived for hundreds of years. She deserved as much, and more.

He opened his eyes when she pushed his wrist away.

“Shannah?” Her name was a sigh on his lips, a plea, a prayer for forgiveness.

“What happened?” She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. “How did I get here? What happened to Hewitt and Overstreet?” Sitting up, she stared at him a moment, her expression puzzled. “Why can I see your face so clearly when the lights are off?”

“Shannah…”

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell? And that noise?”

“Shannah, listen to me…”

She licked her lips, and grimaced. “And that taste…” She looked up at him, her eyes widening. “You gave me your blood again, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s different this time.” She frowned thoughtfully for a moment, as if trying to put all the pieces together. “Why is it different? Why are you looking at me like that? Why…?” She clutched her stomach, a groan rising in her throat as she doubled over in pain. “What’s happening? I’ve never felt like this before. I’m dying, aren’t I?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fright and resignation. “In my room, letters to my parents…” She groaned again, an animal-like cry of pain and fear. “Ronan, hold me! Please, hold me. I’m so afraid.”