Hunting Memories (7 page)
Authors: Barb Hendee
Second, the deacons had gladly accepted her offer on the property. She’d waived the right to the sale being complete pending an inspection, and a bank appraisal wasn’t necessary because she planned on buying the place with cash.
Now, she just needed to sell some stock and have the money available.
Unfortunately, her broker was on vacation in Costa Rica and wouldn’t be back in the States for six days. But the closing date to sign paperwork wasn’t set for three weeks, so aside from feeling in limbo, she wasn’t concerned.
She’d written a long letter to Rose, telling her everything about the underground
,
including the wrought-iron fence and night-blooming roses, how the place felt like home . . . how it had been abandoned and seemed to need someone. She could tell Rose things she could never tell Philip or Wade. Now, she would simply have to wait for a response before knowing the next step. Eleisha understood Rose’s caution—as Rose didn’t know if she could trust them either.
,
including the wrought-iron fence and night-blooming roses, how the place felt like home . . . how it had been abandoned and seemed to need someone. She could tell Rose things she could never tell Philip or Wade. Now, she would simply have to wait for a response before knowing the next step. Eleisha understood Rose’s caution—as Rose didn’t know if she could trust them either.
Last night, Eleisha had taken a taxi east to set up orders at several furniture stores, while Wade and Philip had taken the public Streetcar downtown to pick out a new television and DVD player. They’d brought a DVD player home, but the flat-screen TV that Philip wanted was temporarily out of stock, and they would have to wait a few days for delivery.
So now, with little else to do, Wade and Eleisha had set to work cleaning the inside of the church. Wade might be terrible at making decisions, but once a decision was made, he threw himself in with both feet. At the moment, he was busy scrubbing the upstairs windowsills.
Philip had discovered a hardwood floor beneath the outdated carpet in the sanctuary, and so he was ripping up the carpet.
Eleisha was trying to get the sitting room in the downstairs apartment ready for a delivery of furniture from Crate and Barrel. Scrubbing and sweeping, she felt almost like a housewife, dressed in a pair of Wade’s old sweatpants and a flannel shirt, with her hair in a knot on top of her head. She found the idea humorous. Her. A housewife. How long since she’d set up a house?
Had it been 1912?
Yes, that was the last time . . . really, the only time.
When she’d landed in New York in 1839, so lost and confused, another vampire, Edward Claymore, had taken her and William under his wing. Edward had protected her and trained her to hunt. But he’d never felt a need for a “home” and always kept them living in lavish New York hotels. In the end, Eleisha had struck out on her own, come here to Portland, and bought a house for herself and William. Yes, that was the last time she had set up a home.
It felt good to be doing so again.
She finished wiping the last cobweb from a corner. The room was clean. What now?
She decided to go upstairs to see how Philip was progressing. Emerging from the door behind the altar into the sanctuary, she found him sitting on the floor in a pile of moldy carpet remnants, gazing at nothing.
Most uncharacteristic.
Dust floated in the air. Soft illumination from the streetlights outside filtered through the stained-glass windows, glowing in greens and yellows off the side of his face.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He looked up at her. When he spoke, his accent sounded thick and he started mixing English with French. “I want to talk.
Sérieusement
.”
Sérieusement
.”
He wanted to talk seriously? She tensed, hoping they were not going to have another showdown over Rose. She was definitely not feeling up to a fight with Philip.
“What?” she asked cautiously.
He stood, went over to the altar, and picked up a manila folder. “Come and look.”
His expression was so intense, it frightened her. What could be so important that Philip wasn’t even complaining about the lack of fun or about all the hard work of prepping their new home?
She hurried over. “What is it?”
He crouched down and opened the folder, spreading out its contents. Eleisha found herself looking at the newest editions of
GQ
,
Men’s Vogue
, and a small collection of photos of famous male actors. Brad Pitt was on the top of the stack.
GQ
,
Men’s Vogue
, and a small collection of photos of famous male actors. Brad Pitt was on the top of the stack.
Philip picked up the
GQ
. “Look at the men here and then tell me. What do they have in common, eh?”
GQ
. “Look at the men here and then tell me. What do they have in common, eh?”
If he had spoken in Russian, Eleisha would not have been more confused. “I don’t understand what you’re—”
“Look! What is the same about them all?”
She glanced down at the magazine as he paged through it for her.
“They’re all shallow and self-absorbed?” she ventured.
“No!”
She flinched. He was really upset about something.
“Their hair,” he said. “Now, look at this
Vogue
. Not a single man has long hair like mine.” He lowered his voice to conspiratorial tones. “I am passé.”
Vogue
. Not a single man has long hair like mine.” He lowered his voice to conspiratorial tones. “I am passé.”
For nearly thirty seconds, she almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. In the past month, she had lost her purpose in existence—her William. Then she and Philip had faced down Julian, abandoned Seattle, and found a new home so they could bring in a frightened vampire who had somehow escaped Julian’s killing spree in the nineteenth century, and Philip was worried about his hair?
“It’s your fault,” he went on. “All your talk of new music and new movies, and I did not know until now that my hair makes me look like some shabby eighties rock star.”
Eighties rock stars did not run around wearing shirts by Hugo Boss. . . . Well, maybe some of them did.
“Oh, Philip.” Eleisha sank down beside him, realizing there was more going on here than vanity. The world at large kept moving faster and faster, and living alone for so long, he hadn’t been able to keep up, and he’d never seen himself through any eyes but his own. He was becoming more self-aware due to his newfound companionship. “What if you get it cut, and you don’t like it?” she asked. “It might not grow back.”
She’d discovered this fact within a year of being turned. Although any flesh wound she’d received healed quickly, other aspects of her body worked differently. At first, her hair and fingernails had continued to grow, but then they stopped.
“Here,” he answered, digging through the stack of actors’ photos, holding up a head shot of Viggo Mortensen from
A Perfect Murder
. “What about this? It’s still down below his ears.”
A Perfect Murder
. “What about this? It’s still down below his ears.”
“Where did you get all these pictures?”
“From other magazines. Wade took me to a bookstore called Powell’s last night. It is very big.”
A part of her still could not believe he’d been laboring over anything so trivial, but if he was this concerned, she wanted to help. Philip had fought Julian for her, protected her, stayed with her when she needed him—when he could have left and gone anywhere in the world.
“Well . . . I’ve never been to a hair salon,” she said, “but Wade has. He might be able to suggest one.”
“Wade!” Philip was aghast. “He goes to Supercuts. No, I’ve read articles, and I know something of this. I should not pay less than two hundred dollars, and I should only see a gay stylist. I can risk no mistakes.”
His expression was so troubled.
Torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to hit him across the face with a loose floorboard, Eleisha said. “Okay, we’ll get a phonebook, and we’ll start calling, and we’ll find you an overpriced gay stylist.”
He rocked back on his heels, clearly relieved. “
Bien
.”
Bien
.”
She could hardly believe this was the same man who’d recently kicked Julian out a window.
Julian paced the filthy study at Cliffbracken, dragging a sword over the Indian carpet.
Mary had not returned to him, and every few hours, he was gripped by an almost overwhelming impulse to call her back. But he feared pulling her away too soon—in case she was close to locating Eleisha.
What could be taking so long?
He hated anything outside his own control.
The only way he could gain an advantage over Eleisha was by catching her unaware, before she could invade his mind. If she was coming after him and he had no idea where she was, catching her off guard was impossible. His only option was to stay locked inside the manor—where he knew every inch and every sound—until Mary brought him a report.
But he was hungry . . . starving.
Walking to the door, he cracked it. Even from here, he could feel warm life force drifting down the halls from the kitchen.
One of the servants was still working.
Back in the days when Lord William and Lady Katherine ran the estate, they employed a small army of servants. But at present, Julian retained only three people: a handyman, whose job was to repair anything visibly falling apart, and two cleaning women, who could hardly handle a manor this size but managed to keep the main floor in fairly good order. All three of them lived “in house,” but he never saw any of them. They had been sent out here by an agency in Cardiff and knew how to remain invisible.
Still gripping the sword, he stumbled from the library, down through the dining hall, into the corridor, turning right before he reached the mudroom, and made his way to the kitchens—as the pull of warm blood drew him on.
He heard a woman humming just a little off-key.
He stopped in the shadows of the doorway.
She stood by the table putting loaves of fresh-baked bread into large Tupperware containers. None of the servants had ever dared ask why he required no meals, but of course they had to feed themselves.
This woman looked to be about thirty. Her brown hair was woven back in a loose braid. She wore jeans and a wool sweater. Few servants wore uniforms these days even in the great houses, but here, any semblance of such formality had passed away.
Julian didn’t even know her name.
He wished she looked younger and that she had wheat-gold hair, so he could pretend she was Eleisha and make her suffer.
Without speaking, he allowed some of his gift to seep out, to drift into the kitchens, and she looked up in alarm, seeing him there in the doorway.
Even without his gift, he knew the sight of him would frighten her. He hadn’t bathed or changed clothes in weeks, and he was holding on to a sword.
“Sir . . . ?” she stammered, stepping away from the table. “I’m sorry. I did not know you were out of the . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence and backed toward the other doorway on the far side of the room. Her breathing was ragged.
He emanated the full power of his gift and watched in satisfaction as the alarm on her face changed to terror and her mouth locked in an O shape.
She froze.
He dropped the sword and strode toward her, grabbing her shoulders, turning her around, and slamming her against the table. She could not even scream as wave after wave of fear passed through her.
With his feet planted on the floor, he lifted her a few inches and bent her backward over the table, pinning her with his chest, basking in the terror and warmth her body emitted. He was starving, but he didn’t want this to end just yet, so he cut off the power of his gift, banishing her induced fear and letting her feel panic of her own accord . . . of him.
The glaze in her eyes cleared and she began struggling wildly.
“No!” she shouted, trying to push him away, and then she screamed, “Liam! Liam, help me!”
Julian didn’t care if she shouted for help, and he doubted anyone would hear her. The others were probably upstairs at the other end of the manor. Her breasts were pressed against him, and he enjoyed the feel of her struggles for a few more seconds, and then he drove his teeth into her throat, draining blood so fast that she stopped screaming.
He knew that he was supposed to see her memories as he drained her, that others of his kind saw the entire lives of their victims in the fleeting moments before their death. But Julian saw nothing.
He just reveled in the blood, in the sweet strength of life force flowing down his throat.
Her struggles grew weaker. He drank until her heart stopped beating.
Then he dragged her body through the kitchen by one arm—stopping long enough to pick up the sword. He dragged her all the way into the study, through the passage leading to the old dungeon, and he dropped her in the guard room a few feet from the spot where he’d drained his father.
Neither of the other servants even knew this part of the manor existed.
He felt better, stronger.
Gripping the sword tighter, he headed back up the passage into the study. He had blood on his shirt, and he could feel smears on his mouth. Thinking more clearly now that he’d fed, he decided to go to his own chamber upstairs and clean himself up. But as he walked toward the doors, the air in front of him shimmered, and Mary suddenly appeared, transparent magenta hair glowing in the lamplight.
“I found them,” she gasped, again making unsettling sounds as if she could still breathe. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew she was dead.
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