“If you didn’t want to marry me, you could have just said so.” Damn, did she detect a trace of a sob in those words? Anger, Carolyn. Hold onto the anger. “Instead, you had to disappear mysteriously without a word to anyone. You had to make me worry myself sick over you, convince myself you were dead. And now you just casually stroll into my house and say ‘Sorry, Carolyn, I’m not going to explain anything to you?’” She’d latched on to the anger with gusto, and her voice had risen to a shrill level. Perhaps shouting at him wasn’t the most effective way to pry information out of him—it had never worked before—but it was better than bursting into hysterical tears.
“You’re right,” Gray said. “You deserved better then, and you deserve better now, but it doesn’t matter. I have my reasons for what I’ve done, and they aren’t reasons I can share with you.” Again that hint of bitterness in his eyes. “Gray James died three years ago. It’s time you let him go.” He turned his back and started heading toward the door.
“You are not walking out on me again!” Carolyn shouted, but he didn’t slow down. She drew the Glock and pointed it right between his shoulder blades. “Hold it right there!” Okay, a rational voice whispered in her head, now you’re taking a step off the deep end.
Gray glanced over his shoulder briefly but seemed completely unintimidated by the firepower ranged against him. He put his hand on the doorknob.
The bastard really was going to walk out without a word of explanation! Carolyn couldn’t believe it, and wasn’t about to let him get away with it. She swung her aim down and to the right and squeezed off a shot.
The report was deafening in the enclosed space, and Gray’s shoulders hunched protectively at the sound. The bullet dug into the wall beside the door, and a shower of plaster dust sprinkled the carpet. The scent of cordite burned her nostrils, and Carolyn wondered how many of her neighbors were now dialing 911.
Once again, Gray paused to look over his shoulder. She met his gaze and found she couldn’t look away. There might have been a hint of reproach in his eyes, but there certainly was no hint of fear. He shook his head briefly, then opened the door. A gust of chill air filled the room. Carolyn willed herself to move, to fire off another shot, to do something to make him stay, make him explain himself. But everything was taking on a dream-like quality, and she couldn’t seem to make herself move.
The door pulled shut behind Gray and finally Carolyn was able to shake off the strange paralysis. Shoving the Glock back in its holster, she sprinted for the door and threw it open, careening down the short flight of stairs and looking frantically right and left.
But Gray James had disappeared. Again.
2
GRAY HAD GONE THREE blocks before he realized he’d left his jacket draped over one of Carolyn’s chairs. He stopped in his tracks for a moment, then continued on his way. He should never have shown himself to her in the first place—why compound his mistake by going back for his stupid jacket? It wasn’t like he would die of the cold!
Carolyn was an ex-cop, and a gun-toting one at that. She could have handled one teenaged hoodlum without Gray’s help. But every scrap of rational, logical thought had fled his brain when he’d glimpsed the knife, and the hoodlum was damned lucky to have lived through the encounter.
Idiot, he cursed himself. Three years he’d managed to stay out of Carolyn’s life, and one knee-jerk reaction screwed it all up.
Gray shook himself out of his funk, turning his mind away from thoughts of the past as he’d learned to do with mediocre success over the last three years. As soon as he did so, he became aware that he was being followed. He gritted his teeth on a surge of anger as he came to a stop and turned to face his damned shadow.
Jules smirked at him, and Gray braced himself for whatever abuse the older vampire was going to heap upon him.
“Awfully cold night to be trotting around with no coat on, don’t you think?” Jules asked.
Gray was edgy enough to seriously consider taking a swing at the prick. He managed to restrain himself. Jules had become a vampire something like a hundred years ago, and with only three years under his belt, Gray was no match for him in strength. A fact he had learned the hard way on more than one occasion.
Jules always dressed like he was on his way to a GQ fashion shoot. His coat probably cost a couple grand, his pants looked like they’d been pressed five minutes ago, and his shoes were so shiny they hurt the eyes. In short, he was the kind of man other men would describe as a sissy, and women would drool over. Definitely not the kind of guy Gray wanted to lose a fight to.
“Don’t you have something better to do than follow me around all the time?” he asked. He’d thought Jules had given up on being his own personal demon over a year ago. How long had he been watching?
“Sometimes you’re so naive it’s laughable.” Jules’s mocking tone once again tempted Gray to take a swing. But that’s what Jules wanted—he’d never lower himself to taking the first swing, but he’d love to demonstrate his superior strength and quickness by beating Gray to a pulp in “self-defense.”
“And you’re such an asshole it’s amazing no one’s pounded a stake through your heart yet.” Perhaps not the most powerful of comebacks, but Gray’s oratory skills always seemed to desert him when his nemesis was around.
“Did you think the Guardians were just going to let a free agent wander the night unobserved? In our city? T’es pas une lumiere, mon ami.” He grinned and looked proud of himself.
Gray curled his lip in a snarl. “What’s the matter, Jules? Afraid of what I might do if you insulted me in English?”
Jules laughed. “Yes, I’m terrified,” he said with an exaggerated shiver. He reached into his cashmere coat and pulled out a small paperback book. “I brought you a gift, in case you’d like to look up the words.” He held the book out to Gray.
It was a French-English dictionary, but even if he’d been inclined to research the insults, Gray doubted he’d have much luck. Somehow, he didn’t think many of the phrases Jules used would be found in polite dictionaries.
Sticking his hands in his jeans pockets, Gray ignored the little book. “Gee, Jules. I didn’t think you liked to admit you were French.”
“Québécois,” Jules corrected automatically, stuffing the book back into a pocket inside his coat. “And for that to be as insulting as you wished it to be, you would have to be from Québec yourself. Coming from a foreigner …” He shrugged.
“A foreigner? Jules, this is Philadelphia, not Montreal.” He turned to continue down the street. Naturally, Jules fell into step beside him.
“You seem to have developed an unhealthy obsession for this mortal woman.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“She would be your ex-fiancée, no?”
Gray shot him an ineffectual glare.
“This stalking of yours … Not a good sign, my friend. It’s predatory behavior, you know.”
Gray jerked to a stop, his stomach turning over at Jules’s sick implication. “You think I would hurt Carolyn?” he cried. Damn it, why did Jules always succeed in riling him?
For once, Jules didn’t gloat at his success, his expression grave. “Any predatory behavior in a free agent, especially one with your history …”
“I would never hurt her!” Gray felt the truth of those words down to his bones. Yes, he had changed dramatically since that night three years ago—the night the real Gray James had died. But never could he change so much that he would hurt the woman who had been—and still was—the love of his life. “It’s been three years! If I haven’t killed anyone in three years, why would you think I’d start now?” The Guardians had regarded him with unadulterated suspicion since the moment he’d met them, but Gray had thought they’d eventually back off.
“Because you’ve tasted death,” Jules said, leaning into Gray’s space. Gray made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and the older vampire’s glamour trapped his gaze. “There’s no going back, not for you. The beast inside you is awake
, and it’s hungry, and one day it’ll take over and you’ll do whatever it takes to feed that hunger. And when it wins the battle, I’ll be there to put you down like a dog.” A feral, vicious smile spread over his thin lips. He’d lowered his fangs, tonguing them in threat as Gray remained rooted to the sidewalk, eyes locked with his, unblinking.
Moments later, Gray shook his head to clear a sudden fog of confusion. Jules had slipped away. Gray let out a shaky breath. He hated it when Jules did that little disappearing act. He should have known better than to meet the prick’s eyes and let his glamour get a foothold.
Gray ground his teeth as he stuck his hands into his jeans pockets and continued on down the street. Jules is full of shit, he tried to tell himself. The two of them had taken an instant and comprehensive dislike to each other, so it was no surprise that he’d try to sow seeds of doubt in Gray’s brain. But Gray could never be a Killer, would never allow himself to become a true vampire.
You’ve tasted death, Jules’s voice taunted in his brain. But that was three years ago! Three years of living in the shadows, neither human, nor fully vampire, nor even Guardian. If he was going to turn killer, he would have done so by now, surely.
Unbidden, an image came to his mind of the young punk fleeing the parking lot earlier this evening. Gray had let him get away, but there was no denying the nearly overwhelming desire he’d felt to give chase. If Carolyn hadn’t been there, would Gray have given in to his instincts? Chased the kid down? Might he have killed him?
Gray shook his head violently. Jules was screwing with his mind. He wasn’t now, nor ever would be, a Killer. That was final.
IT WENT AGAINST JULES’S instincts to let Gray return to his home unwatched, but surely the fledgling was shaken up enough that he wasn’t a danger at the moment. Besides, even if Jules wasn’t watching him, Gray had to assume he was. No doubt it was safe to leave him on his own for the remainder of the night.
Disturbed by Gray’s unhealthy behavior—it had nothing to do with his personal dislike of the man, Jules told himself—he decided to call on the Founder and give him a full report.
Elijah Cromwell, who had founded the Guardians of the Night well before Jules was born, lived in a palatial mansion that overlooked the Delaware River. The building was an anomaly amidst the row houses and historic landmarks that surrounded it, a stately Victorian mansion that looked like it was trapped in a time warp. An expansive, gated garden surrounded the house like a moat, and a powerful glamour emanated from the place, a glamour more powerful than Jules had felt anywhere else in his life. A glamour that caused mortals to pass by it without even a second glance, no matter how incongruous it looked. Even Jules felt the echo of that glamour, urging him to look away, walk on by.
But the glamour wasn’t the only thing that made Jules reluctant to approach the front gate. The wrought-iron fence that circled the mansion made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and it took an effort of will to reach out and gingerly press the intercom button no matter how many times he’d come here over his long life. The button sat in an oasis of stone, but it would be easy for the unwary to accidentally touch the surrounding iron and gain a nasty burn.
Jules waited patiently until Eli’s voice squawked at him from the intercom. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Jules,” he said, and, after a brief delay, the gates swung open. Jules overcame his natural distaste for stepping into a space enclosed by iron and hurried to the front door. The door was unlocked, as always, for the iron gates would prevent any intrusion by unwelcome vampires, and the glamour kept away the mortals. As soon as he stepped into the house, he heard the faint murmur of voices and realized he’d have to wait his turn for the Founder’s attention. He followed the sound until he entered what had probably been a ballroom when the house was first built. Eli had turned it into a meeting hall.
The room was long and rectangular. In the near wall was a massive fireplace in which a crackling wood fire burned merrily. The far wall was a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, hidden from sight by green velvet brocade drapes. Jules had always wondered why Eli lived in a house with so many windows. But then, mysteries swirled around Eli and if Jules started examining all of them, his head would start hurting.
Jules stopped short in the doorway as he surveyed the scene. The Founder sat in a huge wingback chair in front of the fire. He reminded Jules of a king, sitting on his throne looking wise, and grave, and noble. On the sofa facing Eli were two Guardians, Deirdre and Fletcher. Standing noticeably distant from them with his back to the door was someone Jules disliked almost as much as he disliked Gray.
“Well, come on in, Jules,” Eli beckoned on catching sight of him, and Jules had no choice but to enter the room.
Drake turned to face the doorway, giving Jules a jaunty smile. “Yes, do come in. I promise I won’t bite you.”
Eli and the two Guardians chuckled, but Jules was far from amused. Although intellectually he approved of the Guardians’ deal with the devil, he really hated to work with Drake—a true vampire, a Killer.
Jules greeted his fellow Guardians by name, giving Drake only a nod of acknowledgment, then took an empty seat by the fire. He wanted to speak to Eli in private, but he would have to wait his turn.
Drake leaned casually against the mantel and turned his attention to Deirdre and Fletcher. “So, where are the suspect’s usual hunting grounds?” he asked.
“Most of his kills have been on Broad Street, around City Hall,” Deirdre answered. A lovely, doe-eyed brunette, she was just the kind of woman Jules would have loved to flirt with when he was a mortal. But Eli frowned on romantic entanglements—or even unromantic, purely physical entanglements—among the Guardians, so Jules had kept his distance.
“His kills?” Drake said with a raised eyebrow. If Drake had ever had any qualms about his vampire state, he had long ago squelched them. To Jules, he always looked resolutely comfortable in his own skin, and he dressed to heighten his aura of sensuality and menace—black leather was his favorite, and when he walked down the street anything with ovaries gave him a second glance. “You know it’s a male?”
Deirdre nodded. “His kills have all been women. Pretty. Young.”
“And soaked in semen,” Jules added. He wasn’t part of the task force assigned to the case, but he made sure to keep up with their findings. Eli should have asked him to help out before resorting to Drake. Jules bit his tongue, determined to keep his opinion to himself.
But Eli read that opinion easily without Jules having to say a word. “His kills are accelerating,” the Founder said. “Should we let more innocent women die while we use only our traditional methods to locate him?”
Jules squirmed under Eli’s disapproval. Of course he had no desire to sacrifice more lives, and he knew Eli wouldn’t call Drake in unless he thought it absolutely necessary. Drake being a killer, his strength—both physical and psychic—was far greater than that of the Guardians. Who better to catch a brutal, cold-blooded murderer than another brutal, cold-blooded murderer? “Just because it’s practical doesn’t mean I have to like it.” An uncomfortable silence settled upon the room as he sank deeper into the chair. Deirdre gave him a sympathetic smile, while the men looked vaguely disapproving.
It was Drake who broke the silence. “When was his last known kill?”
The tension in the air eased and the Guardians turned their attention away from Jules.
“Wednesday,” Fletcher answered. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Fletcher exuded an all-American boy charm at odds with the cunning that lay beneath his surface. That cunning had allowed him to destroy rogue vampires who far out-powered him. Although Eli frowned on the Guardians keeping tallies of their kills, everyone knew Fletcher was their best hunter. If the Broad Street killer had eluded Fletcher, he must be an old and powerful vampire with a good dose of cunning to top it off.
“Sometime just after midnight, I’d guess,” Fletcher continued. “The police think they have a serial killer on their hands. They
’re calling him the Broad Street Banger.”
Drake shrugged. “Well, technically I suppose he is a serial killer. Is he trying to cover his tracks?”
“Yes,” Deirdre said. “He slashes their throats to hide the bite marks.”
“The police think the lack of blood on the scene means the women were killed somewhere else,” Fletcher said.
Drake nodded. “Sounds fairly straightforward.”
Jules managed to suppress a snort If it were a straightforward case, Eli would never have enlisted Drake’s help! Just the fact that Fletcher hadn’t caught the guy should have clued Drake in that this case was anything but straightforward.
“Tread carefully,” Eli warned. “If he’s managed to evade Deirdre and Fletcher, it probably means he knows he’s being hunted. It’s far easier to take down the unwary.”
Jules allowed himself a slight smirk. Obviously, he and Eli were on the same wavelength. He cast a surreptitious glance at Drake to see how he’d taken the warning that was just short of a rebuke.
Drake looked distinctly unimpressed. “Meaning no disrespect for your people, Eli, but he hasn’t really been hunted yet. Merely chased.”
Fletcher’s pretty-boy face flushed red and he opened his mouth for a retort. Eli silenced him with a glance.
“I expect you all to work together on this,” Eli said. “Drake, I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from antagonizing ‘my people,’ as you call them.”
Drake bowed slightly from the waist, and Jules wondered whether that had been a gesture of respect or mockery. Grumbling, Deirdre and Fletcher took their leave, Drake following behind at a discreet distance. Jules stared after him for a long moment after he’d left, feeling tarnished by association.