Hunger (56 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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Ron's voice took on a more definite tone. “And they survive it. After the time's up, sustenance is provided so that the weakened individual doesn't need to hunt for a while.” Ron shuddered again, his eyes gaining a far-away look. Then he seemed to shake himself free of his thoughts and smiled at me. “Very few of those who've gone through the starvation need to be disciplined again. Actually”—he gave Mitch a wary look from the side of his eyes—“it's a much more humane and effective deterrent than your human judicial system.”
Mitch laughed a bit uneasily. “You'll get no argument from me on that. But I don't want Deirdre to go through it regardless of the results.”
“Of course.” Ron nodded his agreement. “We'd all like to avoid the starvation sentence if we can. So we need to work on your motive for the murder, Deirdre. Why did you kill Max?”
I took a sip of my coffee, warming my hands as usual on the mug. “Max was out of control. He had murdered four people, and was threatening Mitch.” I stopped and shook my head slowly. “No, that's not exactly true. What he did was much worse. Max attempted to coerce me into killing Mitch.” My voice broke and my hands trembled, splashing coffee on me. I set my cup down and stood up, rubbing my hands on my jeans. “I understand from Victor that The Cadre does not consider the murder of humans to be a terrible crime. But I had lived all my many years hurting no one, human or otherwise. I would not even have killed Max unless he himself had brought the situation to such an impasse. He knew how I felt about Mitch, and yet he persisted. He gave me no choice.” I walked around behind the couch and massaged Mitch's shoulders, easing both his tension and mine.
“Can anyone else substantiate your evidence?” Ron's expression included both interest and surprise. Apparently he had not heard the true story of Max's death. But then, I thought, no one actually had.
“I ask only,” Ron continued, “because the killing of one's maker, and the founder of a house, is a serious charge, maybe the most heinous crime a vampire can commit, and yet, if you had made a case before The Cadre at that time, and told us of Max's deeds and his attempted coercion of you before you killed him, then the outcome might have been different.”
“I can testify to what happened,” Mitch said firmly. “I was there.”
“Sorry, Greer.” Ron's voice was condescending. “We can't accept the testimony of a nonvampire. You wouldn't help her case much anyway; there are too many who are opposed to marriage with humans. The fewer who know about your involvement, the better. At this point it'd be much better if you just laid low for a while. I'm stretching the rules as it is to allow you to be present at this briefing.”
“And God forbid I should make you stretch the rules.” Mitch stood up and walked around the chair to me, kissing me lightly on the cheek. “Deirdre, I've got to get out of here. Your attorney says so.” His voice sounded calm and reasonable; only the glitter of his eyes and the set of his shoulders betrayed his anger. “And I could use a little night air to clear away the stench of The Cadre. I'll be down at the pool hall. Join me when you're done with Mr. Wilkes.”
“Mitch”—I touched his shoulder—“you don't have to leave. Ron has no jurisdiction over you.”
“That may be true, but I don't think I can tolerate his presence much longer. I've met him before. You see, he used to supervise some of my little trips into insanity. And every time he opens his mouth, I find myself longing for a wooden stake.”
Ron shifted in his seat. “That's not really funny, Greer.”
“I know. It wasn't meant to be.” Mitch kissed me hard on the lips, put on his jacket, and left the apartment.
“Good,” Ron said with finality as the door slammed shut, “we can talk freer now that he's gone. His presence really complicates things.”
I looked over at Ron, taking in his expensive suit, his flawless features, the manicured hands that looked as if they had never done a day's work. I thought about how he had befriended me to serve The Cadre, about how he was a part of the group that drove Mitch into madness. Trying to control my temper, I turned my back on him and silently counted to ten, gripping my hands together, telling myself that he did not know any better, that none of this was his fault. But it did not help. I spun around and confronted him, feeling anger rise uncontrollably through my body.
“Goddammit, Ron,” I snapped at him, moving quickly around the couch and grabbing the lapels of his expensive suit. “You have no right to order Mitch around. You all seem to be overstepping your bounds these days. All your regulations, all your questions, don't you understand that they mean nothing to me? I never knew about the goddamned Cadre, never even knew who Max was until the night he died.” He attempted to rise, but I pushed him back down in the chair and held him there. Ron glanced around the apartment in a panic, licking his lips in fear.
“Deirdre,” he gasped, “don't do this. Violence won't help your case any.”
“I am not looking for help, Ron. Nobody has ever helped me. Where, at any time in my long, miserable life, was your precious Cadre to give me guidance, to read me a list of their bloody rules and regulations? And where was Max? No, you were all quite content to stand on the sidelines and let me struggle with what I had become all by myself. And dammit, I struggled and I survived, no thanks to Max or you or any of The Cadre. Mitch has been the only being to care for me, to truly love me, for a very long time, someone who stayed with me without being ordered to.” Ron winced slightly at that statement, but I ignored him and continued. “And yet you feel you have the right to order him around as if he were your servant. He is ten times the man you will ever be, regardless of your superior powers and attitude. Have you ever seen the scars caused by his confrontation with the beloved and much-revered founder of the house of Alveros? Did you ever look inside the mind you tortured to find his goodness, his intelligence, his love? No, of course you didn't. Mitchell Greer deserves better treatment from you, from all of us.”
Suddenly the anger I felt drained away, leaving me empty and sad. I let go of Ron, noticing as I did so that my nails had made long gashes in the lapels. He looked down at his coat in dismay, and I laughed softly. “You're a lucky man, Ron; it could have been your skin.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice quavering only slightly, “but the skin grows back.”
“I am sorry, Ron. Send me a bill and I'll buy you a new suit. And I apologize for my temper, it was not directed at you so much as at the entire situation. You see, I'm in a difficult position. Had I known of The Cadre's existence, my life might have been quite different. And Max might still be alive. But it's a little late for hindsight at this point; I cannot change what happened. And neither can The Cadre. So let them mete out whatever punishment they feel is necessary. I've survived worse, I assure you.”
“Deirdre.” Ron got out of the chair and stood in front of me, meeting my eyes squarely. “I'm sorry, too, that it should all come to this.” His voice lowered. “The last thing in the world I want to happen is to see you hurt, to know myself partly responsible for that hurt. It's just that there are conventions to be satisfied, and two or three of the other house leaders are calling for blood. Your blood. But they are bound by The Cadre's decision. That's why Victor urged you to accept our justice, why he tried to impress upon you the importance of this trial. Once you have been tried by The Cadre, and their decision has been rendered, they cannot retaliate in any way, or they face the same punishment themselves.”
“I suppose,” I said with a twisted grin, “that Victor is one of those calling for my blood.”
“No, he's not.” Ron sounded so confident, and I found myself almost believing him.
“No? But he and Max were so close. Or at least that is what Victor has always claimed.”
“Well,” he started to say reluctantly, “they were close. But Victor was not blind to Max's faults and knew that there would come a time when Max would be held responsible for his misdeeds.”
“Trial before The Cadre?” Victor had hinted at that the evening I discovered Max's coffin.
Ron nodded. “It wouldn't have been the first time for Max either. I'm sorry to say this, and I mean no offense, but there's something strange about those in the house of Alveros; they tend to be more headstrong than most, more determined to do things their own way, more vicious. Maybe it's just in their blood”—he looked away from me—“although some of us think that it's more from the tutelage they've had.”
“Fred mentioned that I was one of the oldest, that there were only a few of Max's breed left. Do you have any idea of how many?”
A look of concern crossed his face. “Fred shouldn't have told you that.” With effort he pulled his eyes away from mine, “And I've probably said too much myself. I'm not sure how much I can actually help you, Deirdre. I don't even know why I volunteered to speak for you.”
I smiled at him. “I know why; you can never resist helping a lady in need.”
“Yeah”—he smiled back at me, obviously not holding a grudge about my previous actions—“that must be it. Now, I think we've covered more than enough material tonight. I'll want to look back through our archives and see what kind of loopholes there are. Maybe there's a precedent.” I could see his mind working on the problem, turning over the possibilities. “If only we had a feel for what Max was trying to do with you, what purpose he thought was being served by keeping you unaware of your birthright, well, maybe we'd have a stronger case. As it is, it's only your word we have to go on.”
“My word is good.”
“I believe you, and I think Victor does too. But unfortunately we have eight other houses to convince.” He walked over to the desk and closed his briefcase. “Well, let me see what I can do. I'll call you tomorrow evening, if that's okay.”
“That will be fine, Ron.” I walked over to the door with him and shook his hand. “And I am sorry that I let my temper get the better of me tonight. I won't allow it to happen again.”
“I don't mind so much.” He winked at me. “I like a lady with spirit. Just promise me you won't get that carried away in front of the panel, okay? They won't take it quite as well as I did.” His lips brushed my mouth briefly in a light kiss and he went out the door.
Chapter 27
M
itch was at the pool hall, hunched over a beer at one of the tables. I pushed past the crowd of people at the entrance and sat down next to him, lightly touching his hand. He looked up at me with a grimace. “I'm sorry I ran out on you. But I wasn't joking. Every time he opened his mouth I wanted to kill him, or maybe just smash his perfect face in.”
“You have no need to be jealous of Ron, my love. He means nothing to me.”
“Even though you and he spent nights together?” He emphasized the plural with vehemence.
I opened my mouth but did not know what to say. His name was all I managed to get out. “Mitch.”
“I know,” he said after taking a long drink from his bottle. “You thought I couldn't hear your discussion. And I wasn't deliberately listening in, but it's my training. When people drop their voices to a whisper, I'm naturally curious about what they must be saying. No wonder he was so quick to jump to your defense. You're a fast worker, Deirdre, only in town a few weeks and you have an instant champion for your cause. I guess I should be happy you have someone to stand up for you, but under the circumstances . . .” He took another swig of his beer and his eyes met mine defiantly. But under his anger I could see a deep sadness.
“Mitch,” I said softly, “do you know that Max once said the same to me about you?”
“Really?” His voice sounded harsh and sarcastic. “And how did you answer him?”
I touched his hand softly. “I told him that I loved you more than I had ever loved anyone before. And it was true, then and now.”
Mitch stared at me as he drained his bottle. “And how will you answer me?”
“Ron means nothing to me, never did and never will.”
“But the same can't be said of him, I'm afraid. I've seen the way he looks at you. And I recognize that look.” He signaled the waiter for another beer, then glanced back at me. “Dammit, I should recognize it. I've been wearing it around you ever since we met.”
The waiter came over and brought two bottles and one glass. I didn't use it. When he left, Mitch looked at his watch and held up his beer. “Cheers,” he said with no expression on his face. “Here's to a little over twenty-four hours of wedded bliss.”
“Please don't do this, Mitch. I warned you what marriage to me would be like. As I remember, you didn't care at the time.”
“I lied.” He studied the wet bottle rings, drawing his finger through them, idly tracing designs on the tabletop. “So, when did you and Ron enjoy your little trysts? And when do you plan another?”
“There will be no other,” I said firmly. “One of the nights I saw him, well, that was the first time I visited you at the hospital. You do remember, don't you?” I rubbed my jaw. “That wonderful welcome-home gift you gave me?”
Mitch looked at me with a trace of a smile. “Oh,” he said hesitantly, then gave me a full grin. “Ouch, I remember. I'm sorry, are you still mad about that?”
I returned his smile. “I was never angry with you, just hurt and discouraged. I believed that was how it was going to be between us, thought that everything was over. What difference did it make whether I went home with Ron or not at that point?” His smile faded, and I joked to bring it back. “A girl's gotta eat, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I can understand that, but how about the other nights?”
“There was only one other night, after you very succinctly told me that you wished you had never met me. And all we did was talk.”
“Okay, maybe I'll believe that one too. But I still don't like it.”
“No one said you had to like it, Mitch. But you may have to get used to it. However much I would like to, I cannot exist on your love alone. But we were not to discuss the grisly details for a few weeks, so let's drop it.”
“But a few weeks is all we may have. I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I believe that The Cadre is as humane as they keep trying to convince us they are. I still say we should get out now, before they get their hands on you.”
“Shame on you, Detective. Urging a criminal to jump bail and leave town.” I shook my head at him, and he laughed. Then I picked up my beer and stood. “Now, I know this is not exactly the honeymoon we anticipated, but do you want to play a few games of pool before we go home?”
“No.” Mitch stood up too and threw a couple of bills on the table. “Let's just go home.”
He put his arm around me and slowly we began to walk back to his apartment.
“So, what did Ron have to say for himself?”
“He's going to do some research, check the archives, see if he can find any precedents. I doubt that he'll find anything. The Cadre seems to keep a strong grip on its members.”
“And if he can't find anything?”
I snuggled against him for comfort. “Well, then it becomes a case of their trusting my story. I doubt that will help much either.” I gave a small, bitter laugh. “If only I could get my wayward ghost to make an appearance. They would probably be more easily convinced if they had a glimpse into his . . . damn!” I stopped dead on the sidewalk.
“What is it?”
“A glimpse into Max's mind. He left a huge stack of journals behind. It's possible they may hold some answers.”
“Where are they?”
I grimaced. “At the Ballroom, of course, the last place I ever want to go again. He had them stored in a chest in his secret sleeping place. I found it and them the other night, but Victor came in and interrupted me.” I shivered, remembering what else that room contained, and gave Mitch a dubious look. “I don't suppose you would like to take me out dancing tonight. I really don't want to go in there alone.”
He shrugged. “I don't want you going there at all, even with me, but if the journals can help, we should have them. But let's take a cab, I'm getting cold. How about you?”
I agreed, not bothering to remind him that I could not get cold. “That would be fine, Mitch.”
 
Johnny was working as doorman again that evening, slumped against the entrance with the expression that I now recognized as his normal surliness, but he straightened up and smiled as we approached. “Hi, Miss Griffin. How're you?”
“Fine, thank you, Johnny. Listen, is Victor Lange in tonight?”
He shook his head and grunted no.
“How about Fred, then?”
“Nope, neither one's here tonight. You want me to call 'em for you?”
“No, actually I don't.” I looked around; very few people were waiting for admittance. “Has it been busy tonight?”
“Nope, it's been pretty slow.”
“Thank you, Johnny. Oh”—I indicated Mitch—“by the way, this is Mitchell Greer, my husband.” I smiled to myself at the strangeness of that phrase, and its sweetness. “So if he ever stops by without me, you should let him in.”
Mitch extended his hand and Johnny shook it, smiling. “Congratulations. It's nice to meet you.” Then he dropped his hand as if he had been bit. “Wait a minute, ain't you the cop that shot the last doorman? Larry, um, what's his name?”
“Larry Martin,” I said, my voice tight and nervous.
“Yeah, that's him.” Johnny cringed against the door, pushing aside with one hand the lanky bit of hair that always seemed to fall into his face, rubbing the side of his neck with the other. “I don't know, Miss Griffin.” He lowered his voice and glanced at Mitch with a panicked stare. “It don't seem right to let him in, not tonight.”
“Calm down, Johnny. Mitch is not going to shoot anyone, especially you. I promise you.”
“Well, I guess if you say so, it's okay.”
“It's okay, Johnny.” Mitch spoke confidently, calmly. “Larry Martin was shot while he was trying to kill Miss Griffin. I don't think you're planning to do that, are you?”
“No way, Mr. Greer.”
“Then you're perfectly safe.” Mitch took my arm and led me through the door. We crossed the dance floor and entered the hallway that led to my office. “What the hell is his problem?” Mitch asked when he thought he could be heard over the band.
“Who? Oh, Johnny. He's not very bright, I'm afraid. But he seems to do a good job. On the other hand”—I opened the office door—“being unaware is an asset in this place. He's much better off not knowing about half the things that go on around here.”
Mitch closed and locked the door. “Do you think he's one of them?”
I thought about that for a moment. “I doubt it, Mitch.”
He gave me a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, but you couldn't tell about Victor or Fred or Ron or Jean either.”
“You're right, of course,” I said with only a trace of sarcasm, “but now that I know about them, I can recognize the signs. There's something about their mannerisms, their directness, their overbearing arrogance that makes them stand out. Johnny, poor boy, has none of that.”
Reaching into my purse, I found my ring of keys and opened the closet door, then the secret panel. “Here you go,” I said over my shoulder, “just let me light the candles and we'll go in.”
Victor had apparently put everything away that night we had met there. The candelabrum and the matches were back on the side table where I had initially found them.
“Candles?” Mitch's voice echoed through the empty room. “What's wrong with electricity?”
I laughed, my voice shaking a bit. “Max was a traditionalist in more ways than one, it appears.” I held the candelabrum up so that he could see the two coffins on display.
“Damn.” Mitch cautiously approached the stand and bent over to read the engraved plaques. “He slept here?”
“Apparently.”
“But who does the other one belong to?”
My voice was soft in the dusty darkness. “It was for me.”
“Damn.” He walked around and lifted up the lid of the smaller coffin, then let it down gently. “Did you ever . . .”
“No.” The distaste I felt for the idea was apparent in my voice. “I never knew that this was here, how could I? Max never told me anything.”
“I know that, Deirdre. What I meant was, did you ever sleep in one of these?”
“Oh, no.”
“Why not?”
“By the time I had figured out what I had changed into, I had been managing to sleep quite comfortably in bed with the curtains drawn. Why on earth would I want to lock myself up in a coffin day after day?”
“I wonder why Max did?”
I could tell from Mitch's tone of voice that the question was a hypothetical one, but I knew the answer anyway. “Max was tutored, taught from his first day to choose this as his refuge. The habits of centuries are very hard to break.”
“You sound pretty sure of that. How could you know?”
“I dreamed it. But let's get what we came for and get out of here. This place unnerves me.” Carrying the candelabrum with me, I walked across the room and opened the chest.
“Dammit.” Slamming the lid of the chest down, I swore again. “Goddamned son of a bitch.”
“Deirdre, what's wrong?”
“Somebody else has been in here. The journals are gone, every goddamned one of them.”
“Are you sure they were here?” Mitch questioned me patiently, as if I were a child or an idiot.
I gave him an angry glare that he was probably unable to see across the dimness of the room. “Yes, I know they were here. They were real, tangible; they weren't something I dreamed up. The box was full of them, all nicely dated, all written in Max's hand. And now they're gone.”
“That's strange.”
“It's more than strange, Mitch, it's goddamned convenient. My one chance to find a motive for Max's actions, something that might enable me to prove that my killing him was justified, vanishes practically overnight. How wonderfully convenient for The Cadre and that bastard Victor. All this time spent trying to convince us that they're playing fair, that they're not out for my blood, and then they do this.” I brushed my hands on my jeans to remove the coating of dirt that had come off the chest, and made a move to sweep the remaining dust away with my hand.
“Don't touch it.” Mitch's voice was stern and commanding; I obediently backed away. “I'll come back tomorrow during the day and see if I can get fingerprints. At least that way we could tell who else had been in here.”
“Only if our thief was previously printed. What are the odds on that?”
Mitch laughed. “I've got your prints on file, remember?”
I nodded; he had taken my prints right after my secretary, Gwen, had been murdered by Larry Martin.

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