Undead to the World (21 page)

He looks at me with no expression at all on his face. “Uh-huh. So an animal did this.”

“I didn’t say that. What I am saying is that Cassiar didn’t. If he were going to do
something as stupid as taking a woman back to his room to kill her as messily as possible,
why would he go to the trouble of entering through a window on the second floor? Makes
no sense.”

“One little problem with your theory. This much blood and a wild animal? There’d be
tracks all over the place.”

“I never said it was a
wild
animal, either. But whoever or whatever did this, it didn’t leave tracks coming in
because of how the body was carried; the blood dripped to the side, not where it was
stepping. After it was done, it leaped from the bed to the windowsill. Never touched
the floor at all.”

Stoker glances at the window. It’s closed.

I smile and walk over to it. “Look at that. Somebody closed it. Must be a very
civilized
beast. But look at the sill.”

Stoker does. There’s a smudge of blood, one that runs underneath the window itself.
Stoker opens the window—and there, on the sill, are what look like several very large
paw prints, outlined in blood.

“Agile, too,” I say. “Perched on the sill and closed the window from the outside.
You’ll find some blood transfer on the exterior wall, I’m sure. Maybe even some fur.”

Stoker studies me dispassionately. “Any theories as to why?”

“Oh, that’s obvious. This is a message. A warning.”

He nods. “Looks like someone isn’t fond of Mr. Cassiar.”

Or maybe it’s just the company he keeps.
“You’re going to take him in anyway, right?”

“Of course. If nothing else, for his own safety. And to find out who exactly is trying
to scare him off, and why.”

“I can help. Let me talk to him.”

Stoker frowns. “You know I can’t do that. This is a murder investigation, and he’s
in the middle of it. I shouldn’t have let you in here in the first place.”

“But you did. And I did what I promised, didn’t I?”

He considers this. “All right. But I talk to him first, alone. Then we can talk to
him together.”

Not ideal, but it’s the best I’m going to be able to do. “Okay. But I’m going to need
Charlie to get me something.”

*   *   *

I can tell Charlie is desperate to talk to me, but Stoker doesn’t give him a chance.
Stoker takes me to the station in his car, while Silver takes Cassiar in the other.
We have to wait for the county coroner to arrive first, but seeing how that’s Doctor
Pete, it doesn’t take long. I’m cooling my heels in the back of the sheriff’s car,
and give the doc a little wave when he looks my way. He seems more bemused than anything.

At the station, I get put in a cell to wait while Stoker questions Cassiar. Charlie
tries to get in to see me, but Silver tells him he can’t. He does, however, relay
my message about the errand I need Charlie to run. I can hear a muffled argument through
the door, but apparently Charlie thinks better of storming the place. I hope it’s
the right decision.

An hour later, Stoker unlocks my cell and escorts me to the interview room. Cassiar’s
there, looking completely unfazed for a man who’s just been told a woman was brutally
murdered in his bed. Or maybe Stoker’s keeping him in the dark about that, though
I can’t see why. Maybe he wants me to tell him and gauge his reaction.

The only thing in the room besides us, the table, and two chairs, is a television
on a rolling stand. It’s got a DVD player built right in.

“Charlie get you that thing I asked for?” I say.

Stoker hands me a brown manila envelope. “You want to tell me how
this
is going to help?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I say.

This is a big risk. I
need
Cassius, and that means that whatever voodoo whammy Azura pulled on Charlie, I need
her to do the same with Cassiar. Cassiar in jail doesn’t help me at all; Cassius—in
or out of jail, with or without the use of his eyes, ears, or limbs—is an invaluable
asset. I need to get him into the game, and do it
now.
That means showing my hand to Stoker—but hey, that’s going to happen sooner or later
anyway. Maybe it’s even a good thing; if Stoker is someone from my other life, maybe
he’ll turn out to be an asset, too. Just because he’s an evil cult member in this
reality doesn’t mean he’s some sort of monster in his original incarnation, right?

Right?

“Jace,” Cassiar says. “Are you under arrest, too?”

“I told you,” Stoker says. “You’re being detained as a material witness. You’re not
under arrest.”

“And neither am I,” I say. “I just wanted to speak to you.”

Cassiar frowns. “Privately?”

“Afraid not,” says Stoker.

“But first,” I add quickly, “I need to show you something. Bear with me, okay?”

Cassiar understands as soon as I slip the DVD out of the envelope. He glances at Stoker,
then back at me. He gives me an “it’s your funeral look” as I turn on the set.

Azura pops up in the scene menu, which I hope means she’s accepting calls. Her image
flickers to life, but before she can speak I quickly say, “This is the interesting
part, Mr. Cassiar. It’s very small, but if you get close to the screen you’ll be able
to make it out.”

Cassiar does so. Stoker frowns, sensing something’s wrong. “Hey!” he snaps. “Get away
from—”

I slam my body into him as hard as I can. Stoker masses a lot more than I do, but
I’ve got desperation and surprise on my side. We both smack sideways into the wall,
but Stoker shoves me away an instant later. I go careening into Cassiar, knocking
him away from the TV. Not good.

I grab Cassiar by his lapels, spin both of us around, and get us headed back toward
the television. “Azura,
now
!” I bellow.

White light.

*   *   *

It’s not like it was with Charlie.

I’m hanging in some sort of void. Blank nothingness, like having your eyes closed
but more so. And then I hear Azura’s voice in my head:
Uh-oh.

Uh-oh? What do you
mean,
uh-oh?
I demand.

I’m not getting a connection to Cassius. Dimensional harmonic’s all messed up.

Can you fix it?

I’ll try. A pire as old as Cassius has a really strong psychic signature, which helps.
I think all the illusion spells in your area are distorting things, but I’m compensating
for that now … got him!

The nothingness goes away, replaced by—

Warm, golden light. The kind of buttery sunshine I associate with early summer mornings,
before the day gets too hot. The light isn’t coming from overhead, though—not exactly.

My hand is warm in his, but it’s not him I’m looking at. I’m gazing in rapt awe at
my surroundings instead. We’re in a lush, tropical jungle, palm trees and thick foliage
all around us. Bright blue and yellow parrots preen themselves on branches or call
to one another. The air is humid, warm and heavy and rich. We’re also indoors, the
plant canopy reflected upside down off the glass panes overhead. This is an artificial
environment filled with real life, a carefully tended biosphere inside a transparent
shell. During the day the sun shines through the roof and walls, but right now it’s
the middle of the night.

Not that you’d know it. The whole place is illuminated as brightly as it would be
at noon, and not from electric lights, either. No, the light seems to be coming from
everywhere,
almost as if the air itself is glowing.

“How are you doing this?” I ask, wonder in my voice. I know he’s responsible, I just
don’t know how.

“Magic, of course,” he says.

I turn to look at him. He’s dressed like a Roman gladiator: sculpted golden body armor,
a leather kilt, and sandals, all of it over some kind of bodysuit. His whole outfit
is glowing with the same soft light. I can’t see his face—he’s also wearing a crested
helmet with a visor that mostly conceals his features—but I’d know those blue eyes
anywhere.

“David?” I say wonderingly. “No. No, you can’t be—”

He flips the visor up, showing me I’m right. “Now you know why the Solar Centurion
never lets you get too close, Rhiannon. You’re too sharp to fool.”

The Jace part of my consciousness remembers exactly who the centurion is: a member
of the Bravo Brigade, legendary heroes who fought an evil cult back in the fifties.
I have no idea how long Cassius has owned the armor, though, so I still don’t know
what decade this memory is from.

“So the sunlight the centurion armor emits,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt you, even though
you’re a pire?”

“That’s right. I can make it do things normal sunlight can’t, too—like light up this
greenhouse.”

He reaches up and takes off his helmet. His blond hair is charmingly tousled. I should
be angry at his deceiving me, but I’m not. I came to terms with the fact that it’s
David’s job to keep secrets long ago, and eventually realized just how heavy and lonely
a burden that job is.

Now what I feel is gratitude and sorrow. There are things David knows that he wishes
he didn’t: things that someone
has
to know, things that can’t be changed. Only endured.

I reach up and put a hand against his cheek. I love him so much, but I can’t live
in his world. Not anymore. Not the way he does.

“So this is it?” I say. “Your final attempt to change my mind? To show me that even
pires can enjoy daylight, now and then—or at least they can if they have a magic-powered
suit of armor?”

He puts his hand on top of mine. “No. I know your mind is made up. I simply wanted
to fulfill a wish of yours. You said once you’d like nothing better than to just take
a walk in a garden with me on a warm summer afternoon. This is the best I could do.”

I smile at him, tears in my eyes. “Thank you,” I say simply. I pull his hand down,
clasp it in mine, and pull him forward down the path.

We have the place all to ourselves. The perfume of a dozen kinds of exotic flowers
fill the air, mingling with the smell of sun-warmed leaves and moss. I look around,
drinking it all in, but searching for something, too.

I finally find it beneath a tree dripping with crimson blooms. I stop and turn to
face him. “I have a question. Two, in fact.”

“Yes?”

“First of all, does the sorcery just protect your face?”

“No. My entire body is immune to this particular wavelength of light as long as I
wear the armor.”

“Which brings me to my second question. How much of the armor do you have to keep
on for it to work?” I give him a mischievous smile. “Because there’s something else
I’ve always wanted to do with you under the sun.…”

As it turns out, the breastplate and gauntlets are the important parts of the ensemble;
the helmet works with them, but he can remove it as long as it remains nearby.

We kneel on the moss together, and I push him onto his back. The leather kilt comes
off first. It takes some ingenuity and patience to get the bodysuit off while keeping
the armor on, but I’m in no hurry. I want this to last.

Finally, with more than a few giggles during the process, I have my centurion the
way I want him. Then it’s my turn.

I strip for David slowly, turning in the omnipresent sunlight, bathing in its glow,
letting it warm every inch of me. I want to give that warmth to him, to press the
heat of my skin to the coolness of his. I want to burn in his arms like a star.

But practicality gets in the way. Even while David uses magic to grant his lover’s
wish, hard reality won’t be ignored. The armor that covers his chest and belly isn’t
made to be embraced; it’s a reminder of the barriers between us that we can’t remove,
no matter how hard we try. Even while he reveals as much of himself to me as he can,
some layers of protection can’t be removed. That’s just how things are.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up.

I get on top. An embrace is nice, but sometimes you just need to go for a long, hard
ride.…

I don’t experience her orgasm, of course, any more than I remember Amy’s parents.
These are Cassius’s memories, not Rhiannon’s, and though I’m seeing it through her
eyes it’s being filtered through his mind.

But that doesn’t mean the intensity of the moment doesn’t affect me. Even though I’m
in Rhiannon’s head—or some kind of magic/memory analog of it—my own memories are starting
to intrude and overlap. The way he manages to brush his thumbs over my ribs without
tickling. The firm grip of his hands on either side of my waist. His rhythm. And,
oh God, the way that man can use his
mouth
.…

It goes on forever, and it’s over too soon. I slump onto his breastplate like a marathon
runner collapsing onto a metal deck, surprised to find the sculpted surface pleasantly
cool.

“Thought … it’d … be …
hot
,” I pant against his chest.

“Funny, no one ever complained before.”

I raise myself up on my arms and give him a ferocious grin. “Your
armor,
idiot.”

“Ah, now I see. I was expecting a different sort of comment.”

“Well, I was also going to point out how …
rigid
it is.”

“My armor.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Honestly, how are we supposed to snuggle like this? It’s like lying on top of a rock.”

“I refer you to my initial statement vis-à-vis complaints.”

I laugh and roll off him. We both sit up, him with his arms behind him and his hands
flat against the ground, me with my knees drawn up and my arms wrapped around them.
We regard each other, our eyes full of emotion, not speaking. There’s too much between
us for the moment to last, though, the silence filling up with the memory of arguments
past and consideration of those in the future.

“Don’t,” I say softly. “Don’t start.”

“Then don’t end,” he says.

“That’s what human beings do, David. We’re not meant to last forever.”