Vamparazzi (11 page)

Daemon grunted in surprised pain then snorted a little with laughter, which reaction he concealed by burying his face in my tumbled hair.

He had his revenge, though. As Ruthven swept Jane into their final embrace, his long, hard, taut body pressing against her supple and yielding one, and lowered his mouth to her unresisting neck ... Daemon bit me.

I mean,
really
bit me. Like he was actually trying to get blood from my veins. I uttered a stifled sound of pain as my knees buckled and I clutched his shoulders.

I heard more sighs and moans, the audience responding to Ruthven's ruthless sexual domination and what they thought were my expressions of orgasmic ecstasy.

Then Daemon started sucking intensely. Without thinking, I gasped and reflexively shoved at his shoulders. He clutched me tighter, I lost my footing, and we began sinking to the floor together—which was not how the scene had been choreographed. The audience, a number of whom had previously seen the play and probably realized we were going off course, seemed to collectively hold its breath as our unrehearsed wrestling took us both down to our knees, pushing, clutching, and writhing.

I suddenly remembered the little bottles of blood in Daemon's dressing room. The tinted windows of his Soho loft. His insistence on avoiding direct sunlight. As he bore me to the floor, his teeth and tongue working on the tender flesh of my throat, I panicked.

I'm being murdered by a vampire,
I thought,
right in front of hundreds of people!

Then I thought,
And some of them paid three hundred dollars to see this show. Unbelievable!

I felt the spotlight on us intensifying and growing brighter; the effect was supposed to make Jane's body look whiter, drained of blood as she died. I realized that if I gave a death rattle and went limp, Daemon would have to stop biting me and carry on with the scene. I tried it and, sure enough, it worked.

Daemon rose to his feet and uttered a few lines as I lay dead, my neck throbbing while I plotted his evisceration. Next, Leischneudel entered, found my corpse, and went mad with grief. Then the vampire, exercising hypnotic power over Aubrey, convinced the young man to take his own life. Leischneudel plunged a prop dagger into his torso and collapsed, staying well outside the spotlight that made me look pale enough to have been exsanguinated. The two of us lay motionless onstage as Daemon gave his final speech, a dark little homily about the price of messing with a vampire.

Two things happened as soon as the curtain came down. The audience exploded into thunderous applause and noisy cries of rapturous adulation. And I leaped to my feet, sought Daemon in the dark, and kicked him as hard as I could.

“Ow !”
Leischneudel howled, flailing and stumbling backward.

“Oh, no!” I cried, realizing I had miscalculated. “I'm sorry!”

With my pupils contracted in response to the spotlight shining on Jane's dead face, I couldn't see anything when the stage went dark.

Leischneudel must have stumbled into Mad Rachel as she was coming onstage for the curtain call. I heard her bellow, “Oof! Goddamn it! Watch where you're going!”

Someone touched me, and I swatted the hand away.

“It's
me,
” Leischneudel said, shouting to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

“Oh! Are you okay?” I shouted back.

“Come on, hold hands!” Rachel said. “Why is everyone in the wrong place?”

“I think she tried to
kick
me!” Daemon sounded shocked.

“Come
on,
” Rachel said.

I still couldn't see anything, but when I felt Daemon grab my hand, I shoved him. “I'm
not
holding your hand!”

“Here,
I'll
do it.” Leischneudel shouted, “Daemon, give me your hand!”

“No! I'm not holding a
guy's
hand in the curtain call!”

The curtain rose on us all standing there bickering.

We immediately fell into line for our bows, but I didn't accept Daemon's outstretched hand, and when he tried to grasp mine, I stepped out of reach as I smiled at the audience—who were all on their feet, shouting and applauding wildly.

We did four curtain calls, the most we'd ever done. The audience was still applauding and shouting for another one when the curtain came down again and I turned on my heel and stalked offstage, followed by Leischneudel.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, relieved to see he wasn't limping.

“I'm fine,” he assured me.

“I'm
so
sorry,” I said. “I meant that kick for
him.
”

“So I gathered. What's wrong? What happened?”

“I swear, I will
kill
him before this run is over.”

Daemon was onstage, taking another curtain call alone. Afterward, as soon as he exited into the wings, I walked up to him and slapped him so hard my hand stung. He staggered backward, his eyes watering.

He shook his head a couple of times, as if to clear his vision, then said, “Oh, come on, Esther. They loved it!
Listen
to that applause.
Five
curtain calls!”

“If you
ever
do that again,” I shouted, “I will hit you that hard onstage, in the middle of the performance. I mean it!”

“Hey, great show, guys,” Tarr said behind me. “Whoa, Esther! Daemon! You guys really took that scene to a whole new level!”

I resisted the urge to slug Tarr, too, and stormed down the hallway toward my dressing room. Behind me, I heard Daemon accepting Tarr's congratulations.

“What a jerk!” I muttered. “Leischneudel?”

He was right behind me. “Yes?”

“I'm exhausted. I want to go home. Please get me out of this gown. Right now!”

“Of course.” He started undoing my laces, trotting to keep up with me. “What happened, Esther?”

“I think he's started to believe his own bullshit.” And for a moment there, with Daemon's teeth sinking into my throat,
I
had believed it, too. Feeling sticky, tired, and cranky, I added, “
God,
I want this dress off.”

“Halfway there.”

“Good.” I reached my dressing room, flung open the door—and froze when I saw Detective Connor Lopez there.

L
opez was sitting slumped in a stiff-backed chair next to the makeup table. His face was turned away from me, but I could see it clearly reflected in the brightly lit mirror that ran the length of the table. His legs were stretched out in front of him, his arms and ankles crossed, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were closed and his long, dark lashes lay against his cheeks in peaceful repose.

He was ... dozing? Here?

He flinched and lifted his head abruptly when Leischneudel, hot on my heels as he unlaced the back of my costume, bumped into my suddenly immobile body, inadvertently smashed his pert nose against the back of my head, and exclaimed, “Ow!”

“Oops!” I said.

Lopez's dazed gaze flew to us as he sat up, blinking in startled surprise. I stepped through the doorway and turned to face Leischneudel, whose hand was clasped over his nose while his eyes watered.

“I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. You should get danger pay for working with me tonight. Is it bleeding?” I said in a rush, more flustered by the sight of Lopez than of my fellow thespian staggering backward in pain (again) because of me. “Come on, Daemon might not be far behind us. Get in here before he sees it.” After what had just happened, I wasn't as certain as I used to be that Daemon's appetite for hemoglobin was just an act.

I dragged Leischneudel into my dressing room, slammed the door behind us, and tried to pry his hand away from his face.

“Let me see it,” I said, using the firm tone I often found it expedient to employ with him.

He removed his hand and gave a little sniff as he reached for the pocket of his elegant Regency waistcoat.

“It's not bleeding,” I said with relief. Unlike a certain D-list celebrity who reveled in his gothic antics (my neck was really smarting, and I knew there'd be a telltale mark there by tomorrow), I had no desire to see my colleagues' blood.

Behind me, I heard Lopez rise to his feet and shove the chair away.

Leischneudel pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief and used it to dab at his eyes. “It's all right. It just really hurt for a second there.” He sniffed again and shook his head. “I thought things like this wouldn't happen anymore.”

“Things like walking into me?” I said.

“Pain.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “I forgot you were right behind me.”

He stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, touched his nose tenderly, and said, “I'm fine. It feels better already. And it's a lot easier to get this thing off you when you're standing still, anyhow.” He put his hand on my shoulder to turn me slightly as he shifted position to get his hands on the back of my dress again. That's when he saw Lopez.

“Oh!” Leischneudel froze in surprise, his hands on the laces of my gown, as he stared at the strange man in my dressing room.

Taking in the detective's uncharacteristically grubby appearance tonight, I suddenly realized how disreputable Lopez looked. Even intimidating. Particularly to someone who had no idea who he was or what he was doing here.

Come to think of it... “What are you doing here?” I blurted.

“You know him?” Leischneudel asked anxiously.

“We need to talk,” Lopez said to me.

“We do?”

“Right away,” he said, his gaze riveted on the sheer foundation garment exposed by my half-undone laces. Then his blue eyes shifted coldly to Leischneudel. “Hi.”

“Er . . . hello,” the actor replied, obviously wondering why Lopez looked ready to kill him.

My heart pounded with mixed emotions.

I had struggled with my desires but had remained resolute and strong since the last time we'd seen each other, that stormy night in Harlem more than two months ago. Why did Lopez have to come here now and make this even harder for me?

I had missed him so much. Why hadn't he come sooner, damn him?

Wow, he came! He couldn't stay away from me.

Okay,
stop
, I thought.

Recognizing the awkward silence that was filling the room as I stared in smitten fascination at Lopez while he and Leischneudel eyed each other, I realized that I should make introductions.

I said to Lopez, “This is Leischneudel Drysdale, one of the actors in the show.”

Calling on his good manners, Leischneudel released my laces and stepped forward to offer Lopez a courteous handshake.

I said, “Leischneudel, this is—”

“Hector,” Lopez said, giving Leischneudel's hand a quick, curt shake. “Hector Sousa. I'm a friend of Esther's.”

I gaped at Lopez, stunned by his use of a phony name and having no idea what to say next.

Leischneudel looked down at his hand with a slight frown, rubbing his fingers together as if trying to remove an unpleasant substance.

This caused Lopez to rub his own hand self-consciously down the front of his sweatshirt. “Um, sorry.”

Always the gentleman, Leischneudel quickly said, “No, no, not at all.” But since the cat was out of the bag, he pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his hand. I noticed that the white fabric came away darkly smeared, which would make Fiona even crankier than usual.

I glanced at Lopez's hands and noticed that they were rather dirty, as if smeared with crude oil. Like everything else about his appearance this evening, that was unusual for him. While not fastidious, he was generally a clean, tidy guy. Tonight, though, he looked like a street thug. Or, alternately, like a laborer at the end of a long, hard overtime shift.

An NYPD detective assigned to the Organized Crime Control Bureau, Connor Lopez (who didn't look like a “Connor”) was in his early thirties, slightly under six feet tall, and lithe and lean, like a soccer player. The youngest of three sons, he had inherited rich blue eyes from his Irish-American mother; and maybe his lush, full lips had been another of her hereditary gifts to him. Otherwise, he (I had always assumed) resembled his Cuban-born father; his straight, shiny hair was coal black, his skin was a burnished golden olive hue, and his facial features were strong and distinct.

When on duty, he usually wore conservative, budget-conscious suits (I suspected he was a regular customer of Banana Republic). Off-duty, I had mostly seem him dressed like any regular guy trying not to scare off a woman: casual, but not sloppy.

Tonight, though, he was in a hooded gray sweatshirt that had seen better days. There was an odd yellow stain around the bottom hem, a hole in one elbow, dark smudges all over the sleeves, and more smudges on his chest and stomach, as if he'd wiped his dirty hands there a number of times before now. The rounded neckline of a T-shirt was visible above the zipped-up V-neck of the sweatshirt, and I could see, even with this limited view, that the garment was ragged and old. His legs were covered by slightly baggy military khakis—the kind of bilecolored trousers that have lots of pockets and pouches. He wore lace-up work boots that came up to his shins. They looked waterproof, sturdy, and well-made; but like the clothing, they, too, appeared to have been in his life a long time and subjected to hard use.

Lopez looked very tired, and his eyes were bloodshot. He also needed a haircut and a shave. If not for the rolled-up bandana around his head that was holding his hair off his face, it would be hanging in his eyes; and he looked as if he hadn't used a razor in at least three days. The heavy shadow of facial hair made me notice something else: he was unusually pale. The last time I had seen him, in late summer, he'd been tan and sun-kissed. Now he looked rather sallow, as if he hadn't been outdoors in weeks.