Embrace the Darkness (Darkness Series) (19 page)

“You need answers, Amber.” His voice was patient. Kind. He stepped closer and leaned in, his breath a warm whisper on her skin. “If Greg is your father, then explain how you were able to travel with Nicolas. Can you explain that? Or this?”

And before she knew it, he took her in his arms and she was flying over Asheville at an impossible speed. Their feet occasionally touched ground before pushing off to soar above the treetops.

Amber opened her mouth to scream. The force of the wind pushed the words back down her throat. She felt as if she were choking. Dying. Time lost all meaning as she was jerked around like a rag doll being dragged through the dirt. Only Gerard was dragging her over the mountains and through the woods as a dizzying Kaleidoscope of colors rushed by. At last, her feet touched the ground and stayed there. Her head spun. Gerard held her close. His body trembled.

“Dear God, it’s true,” he whispered. “You’re a dhampir.”

Chapter 12

Dhampir. The word rolled around in Amber’s brain, chilling her soul. She swallowed, trying to coat her suddenly dry throat. “What’s a dhampir?”

Gerard laughed, the sound bitter and mirthless. “I truly am damned. Just when I think happiness is within my grasp, it’s cruelly ripped from my hands. Tina’s dead and you…you were born to be an enemy to my kind.”

Enemy was a harsh word. But preparation not paranoia was the key to survival. If a vampire attacked, dumb luck wouldn’t save her. Knowledge and skill would. “Why? Because I’m a cop?”

“Because you’re a dhampir—the child of a mortal and a vampire,” Gerard said, looking about as shell-shocked as Amber felt. “Nicolas was more than your father’s friend. I suspect he’s your father.”

“No he’s not. Greg Buckley is.” Despite the denial on her lips, the crazy voice in her head disagreed. Damn bitch just wouldn’t shut up.

Amber refused to listen.

She was such a tangled hot mess. She didn’t know if she wanted to shoot something or curl into a ball and cry. But firing her weapon would draw unwanted attention and crying accomplished nothing. She had to escape.

Heart pounding, she twisted to the right and lurched to a stop in front of a brick wall. She turned again. A narrow passage yawned before her, a shadowy abyss covered in graffiti—fading into inky blackness. Something moved in the shadows. A cat? A rat?

Hell, maybe it’s Batman.

Gerard had apparently transported her to some dank, stinking alley, and he was blocking her only escape.

Her shoulders twitched from the heat of his stare. “There’s no other explanation,
ma chérie
. You’re a dhampir, and Nicolas is your father. I just don’t know how it happened.”

She spun around, coming full circle, fear turning to anger. “Dhampirs are make-believe. Like leprechauns and—”

“Vampires?” he asked softly, bursting her defensive bubble.

Keeping her wits meant expecting the unexpected—doing the unexpected. That meant accepting the possibility Gerard was telling the truth. But something in her rebelled, clinging to the view of the ordinary world she knew. Or thought she knew.

Grasping at straws, she said, “If vampires could reproduce, there’d be vampire children. There aren’t.” At least, she didn’t think so. But who really knew what crept through the darkness? She shivered. This was why she never cared for horror stories. She didn’t even like scary movies. Her life had been scary enough.

Gerard studied her face as if he could discern her genetic makeup with the intensity of his gaze. “Balkan folklore speaks of dhampirs. They supposedly lack a vampire’s strength but possess other abilities—like detecting and killing vampires.”

“Why would a dhampir kill vampires if they’re half vampire themselves?” It gave patricide a whole new meaning.

Gerard shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I brought you to New York.”

“We’re in New York?” Hell. Why not? She’d already been to Cedar Plank without getting in a car. Why not New York without boarding a plane?

Gerard stepped toward her, reaching for her shoulders. She held up her hands, palms outward, warding him off. She couldn’t think when he was near. If he touched her, she’d crumble into a weeping puddle of need.

Dropping his arms to his sides, he halted. “I thought you should talk to Vincent. Or Megan. He’s originally from Bosnia where dhampir legends originated. And Megan studies vampires. Maybe she can offer a scientific explanation. But if you’d rather talk to Nicolas or your father…”

“I don’t know how to contact Nicolas, and I don’t want my dad dragged into this.” He’d never believe her. Even if he did, he had his new family to protect—a family that no longer include her, even if he was her biological father.

“Can you sense Nicolas?”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” Her nerves were so taut she feared they’d snap at any moment.

“Didn’t Nicolas tell you anything? He must have said something.” Gerard stared, tapping at her brain, trying to see into her thoughts.

She imagined a brick wall, blocking his efforts.“Stop.”

He’d invaded her thoughts before but this attempt felt like a betrayal.

He swayed. His eyes cleared. “I swore never to try that again. I’m sorry. But it was necessary to prove a point.”

Pulse pounding in her throat, she ground her teeth. “What. Point.”

Eying her with sympathy rather than remorse, he spoke softly, as if they were at a funeral. “A mere mortal couldn’t block me, Amber. How did you?”

“Adrenalin. I’m pissed as hell.” Her heart pounded against her sternum like a jackhammer.

“Pissed or afraid?”

“Back off, Gerard.”

“Your life could be in peril if you don’t accept what you are,” he said, as tenacious as a dog with a damn bone.

A denial sprang to her lips—lips cold with fear. “I’d know if I was something other than human.”

Do I look like Nicolas?

His eyes were brown. Hers were gray. Like her mother’s. But her hair was the same shade of brown. And there was something familiar about his smile—an almost too thin upper lip over a pouting bottom lip. Slight dimples at the corners of his mouth—a mouth that looked a lot like hers.

“How good of a soldier were you? Fast? Intuitive? A dhampir has certain powers—”

“Stop drilling me like I’m a suspect.” Memories of Iraq nearly stopped her heart.

She had been intuitive. She once warned Hodges of an IED
before
he stepped on it. The Improvised Explosive Devise was planted in the dirt outside the abandoned house they were clearing. Then there was the night he and Morrison died…

“A lot of soldiers are intuitive. They have to be to survive.” But she’d known something bad was going to happen that night. Her fear had run deep. And she remembered sensing something in the dark. Something far more sinister than insurgents bent on destruction. Surratt? Claus? Or a vampire in search of a dying soldier to feed his hunger?

Gerard shook his head. “You’ve done more than just survive. You’ve never even been sick. Have you?”

“I’m sure I was sick as a child.” Yet, she didn’t remember ever having a cold. And she’d never missed a day of school.

“Were you ever injured, even in the army?” He looked at her as if every word out of her mouth confirmed his suspicions.

“I’m on medications, aren’t I?” She’d come home a walking basket case. She was still a basket case. “I have horrible migraines,” she added, her voice weak. Feeble.

His gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. “How can you be sure the pain is physical and not mental?”

A slap wouldn’t have hurt more. “Just because I take anxiety medicine doesn’t make me crazy.”

He stepped closer but stopped without touching her. She would have fallen apart if he had. Knowing about vampires was enough to push anyone over the edge. And she was teetering above a deep precipice.

“Maybe you get headaches because your mind doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth.”

She held up her hands, violently shaking her head. “No.”

“How old are you, Amber?”

Old enough not to believe in vampires and things that go bump in the night. “Over thirty. What does it matter?”

“You could pass for twenty-five.”

“I use moisturizer.” And maybe it was genetic. Grasping at straws, she added, “Besides, you could pass for thirty-five and you’re over two hundred.”

His answering smile sent a chill down her spine. “My point exactly. I died when I was forty-two. And before I started taking the anti-vampiric injections, I would have looked younger than my stated age for eternity. Dhampirs don’t live as long as vampires, but they age slowly, and they don’t get sick.”

“So now you believe in the old myths? In dhampirs?” She flung his previous disbelief in his face. Let him deal with confusion for a change.

“You’ve made me a believer.”

“Bullshit. If you shot me, I’d die.”

“If I shot you in the heart or head, yes,” he agreed. “Even a through and through would do it for you. But if I shot you anywhere else, you’d heal. Much more slowly than a vampire, but with medical care, you would survive.”

“You don’t know that.” Her pulse pounded. She could barely breathe. Much less think. So what if she’d never been sick. Her mother had vaccinated her. And maybe she just had a damn good immune system. That didn’t mean she was some hybrid freak of nature.

“I can’t be sure unless you want me to shoot you with your own gun, but I’d rather not test that theory,” he said with a sharp edge of sarcasm. “But I know what the legends say. And it’s hard to ignore the obvious. You traveled with a vampire and survived. Three times.”

“Maybe it’s not impossible. Have you ever taken a mortal on one of your midnight flights to find out?” If her heart beat any harder, it would leap out of her chest. She touched her breastbone, praying it would stay exactly where it was.

Gerard arched a brow. “No one but you. Because it would kill them.” Regarding her with understanding, he said, “You need answers, Amber.”

She rubbed her temple. “I’m tired. And confused. I don’t know what I need any more.”

“Nicolas might answer your questions now that you know the truth. Can you call him?”

“Not unless he has a cellphone. And I don’t have his number.”

A soft smile softened the lines of tension around his mouth. “You’re
part vampire. You shouldn’t need a phone. If you are a dhampir, you should be able to call to him. Or at least sense his presence.”

Somehow, during the course of their argument, part of her must have accepted the possibility that she was something other than human. Considering her past, it made a strange kind of sense. She licked her suddenly dry lips and met Gerard’s gaze. “How?”

He shrugged. “Concentrate. Send out mental feelers. Think vampire.” He raised his hands, palms upward, in a quintessential French gesture. “I don’t suppose you’d do it any differently than I do. Look for a vampire with your mind.”

“This is bullshit,” she said as she closed her eyes and concentrated. “I can’t—”

A ghost of an image flickered across her mind, too translucent to grasp. Her muscles coiled. Her blood tingled. And some deeply ingrained instinct warned of danger.“There’s a vampire near,” she whispered. “About five or six blocks west of here.”

Gerard chuckled. She opened her eyes and glared. “You think this is funny?”

“No. I think you just found Vincent.”

****

Desperate to help Amber, Gerard transported her the six blocks to Vincent’s Brownstone. When they stopped on the front stoop, she fell against him, as unsteady on her feet as a drunken sailor on a rolling deck.

Staggering, she said, “Moving that fast is disorienting as hell. But at least it didn’t take so long this time.”

He tucked her under his arm, holding her steady. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t bet on it, Frenchie.”

Stifling an unexpected chuckle, he raised his free arm to knock. Vincent jerked open the door before his knuckles made contact.

“I see you found her,” he said, his hard gaze settling on Amber. She stiffened. “Detective,” he added in a stern voice. Then turning with a snap, he led them down the hall. His military bearing commanded obedience.

With no prodding from Gerard, Amber followed, apparently used to taking orders. Once inside, the smell of latex and lacquer nearly overpowered Gerard’s senses. His nose twitched.

After Tina’s death, Megan had completely remodeled Vincent’s mountain home. Now, she was renovating the Brownstone. Fresh paint brightened the hall, and the faded, floral wallpaper had been stripped from the living room. Drop cloths covered the furniture, and the walls were now the color of blush wine.

Therapy
?

Gerard looked at Vincent. He nodded, his eyes filled with grief. When Megan hurt, he hurt, and Tina’s death had affected her more than she’d let on.

Amber wrinkled her nose. “If this is a bad time…”

“Unless you’ve caught Tina’s killer, it’s never going to be a
good
time,” Vincent said.

Frustration radiated from Amber like a beacon. Gerard placed a hand on the small of her back, nudging her forward. She hesitated only a second before crossing the room and lowering her lean hips onto a canvas-draped sofa.

Gerard eased down beside her and glanced up at Vincent. He remained standing, his eyes hard. Having read Gerard’s thoughts, he knew Amber was a dhampir. And he didn’t like having her in his house. It didn’t take a vampire to see that. Irritation was written on his face.

Tension rippled the air until Megan entered, drying her hands on paint-spattered jeans. Her smile was warm and welcoming. “Detective Buckley, I presume.”

Amber started to rise but didn’t seem to have the strength. Her hand fluttered in the air before dropping limply to her thigh. “Yes. But please, call me Amber.”

Megan nodded. “Well, Amber. Can I get you anything? Tea? Water? A straight shot of whiskey?”

“There’s not enough whiskey in the world,” she replied, her lips twitching at the corners.

Megan smiled outright. Then she brushed by Vincent and sat on a canvas-covered chair flanking the sofa. Her eyes shone with sympathy as she searched Amber’s face. “So, Gerard told you our little secret.”