Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance), Page 2

  “Perhaps he is reliving his war years.”

  Ann appeared troubled, drawn, and weary, which was not like her. Tara had always thought her cousin was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her eyes were deep, penetrating blue. He hair was dark, her complexion very fair, and the contrast was startling and appealing. She was tall and elegantly slim, with curves just where they should be.

  There had been times in Tara’s life when she had hated the visits of her French cousin. She’d had too many friends in high school and college who all but drooled openly when Ann came around. She could admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the years, but she also loved her cousin, more so once she had gotten older, when high school and college were long in the past. Ann had spent enough time in her house when they were growing up to make it a rivalry that sisters might have shared—except that in Tara’s case, her “sister” had come with a fascinating accent and the allure of being an exotic foreigner. Ann came to the United States frequently; Tara and her family went to Paris just three times in the years when she was growing up. Ann spoke both French and English perfectly, while Tara’s French was poor and her accent far too obviously American. Jacques DeVant had fallen in love with their grandmother, Emily, an American nurse, at the end of the war. The two had married, and moved to the United States. Their son, David, had, in turn, fallen in love with a French artist, Sophie, during a summer term of college in Paris. He had remained, while their daughter, Tara and her brother Mike’s mother, had married Patrick Adair, a first generation Irish American.

  Their cultural differences therefore, despite their grandparents, were great.

  But those old times seemed long ago now. When Tara graduated from college, she had spent a summer at the old chateau. Her grandmother had died and her grandfather had moved back to Paris by then, taking up residence in his family home, where Ann had grown up. Ann’s parents had retired, and spent most of their time in a little house on the beach at Costa del Sol.

  To call her grandfather’s house a chateau was, perhaps, a bit presumptive, but it had been called Le Petit Château DeVant since it was enlarged in the seventeen hundreds, and thus it remained. The war had basically destroyed what hadn’t exactly been a family fortune, but a decent portfolio, and now, though somewhat decayed, the little estate did have tremendous charm. The house itself was two stories with an old-fashioned hall rather than a parlor or living room, a magnificent library, and beautiful upstairs bedrooms with balconies that overlooked a courtyard. The carriage house still housed a small buggy and Daniel, an incredibly old, gentle, gray draft horse who did little more these days than amble around the adjoining pasture.

  Ann suddenly shook her head and crushed out her cigarette, leaning forward. “It’s not the war. Perhaps his writings have gotten to his mind. Maybe he read too many American comic books. He is distressed, thinking that he deserted ... something. He does talk about the war, saying that the realities of it made him forget what he was, who he was. And then, going to America, and he should have known, because it was there, even in America.”

  “What was there—even in America?” Tara asked.

  Ann threw up her hands. “I don’t know. He suddenly becomes disturbed, as if he has spoken too much. Maybe you will do better with him than I have. I took time off from work when he was so sick ... but I can’t now, or I won’t have a job anymore. I don’t make a fortune, but I love my work.”

  Tara felt a twinge of guilt that it had taken her so long to make it to France. But she had a few deadlines of her own.

  She and Ann had taken different paths, but oddly enough, wound up working on similar projects. Ann was an editor with a company that purchased and translated English and American titles. Tara was a commercial artist who was frequently hired for book covers.

  “You can do a lot of work at home, though, right?” Tara asked her.

  Ann laughed. “I have to come home to work half the time, what with the phones and the meetings all day long. But that’s just it—I have to be at those meetings.”

  Tara nodded. “Well, I am here now.” She yawned. “And really tired.”

  “Does that mean I’m not taking you celebrating to any local bars tonight? There are some exciting fellows around now. You said on the phone that you had split with the stockbroker.”

  Tara nodded. “Yes, we split. But should you really go bar hopping? What happened to the new love in your life? ”

  Ann wrinkled her nose. “We, too, have split.”

  “A nasty split?”

  “Nasty?” Ann raised a brow with perfect contempt. She sighed. “There was an art meeting in my office that ran very late. You know, of course, that I met Willem when he came in to take over as head of the sales force. About a week ago, he was to lock up for me—he was finishing some business with the art director and the models hired for the ad campaign—and meet me at—well, meet me at a hotel room. I left to pick up some food for a romantic dinner, but I had forgotten a manuscript I wanted to work on, and went back to the office. He had not been expecting me, nor had the model for the advertising campaign. I found him in a compromising position with the girl. I left.”

  “It was your office?”

  “I assumed he’d be out of it by the time I went back the following Monday,” Ann said dryly.

  “And he was, I take it.”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad was it? Did he call? Did he try to apologize? Did he have an excuse or an explanation?”

  “He called. I assured him he had nothing to say that I would like to hear.”

  The man had hurt her Tara decided. But Ann also had a tendency to see the world in white and black. She could be totally unforgiving when she chose. Pride and direction were important to her.

  “It must be difficult. I mean, he’s still with the company. You two still work together.”

  “He does not work in my office.”

  Tara was silent for a moment. Ann had talked about Willem with such great enthusiasm. She had expected to hear that her cousin was engaged at any time.

  “All right, let me get a little more personal here. Just what was he doing?”

  Ann flashed her a glance and rolled her eyes. “The girl was on my desk. He was bent over her. What more do you want?”

  “Everything,” Tara said. “Were they—dressed?”

  “They had clothing about them.”

  “Then maybe—”

  “Don’t make excuses for him!” Ann said irritably.

  “They were kissing and pawing one another, at the very least. And that is too much for me.”

  “I’m not making excuses for him. But . . . perhaps the model forced him into a compromising situation. Or maybe he was showing her a pose that he particularly wanted.” Tara grimaced, wondering why she was trying to defend a man she didn’t know, who had been caught in a situation she knew nothing about.

  Ann laughed curtly. “There were no photographers in the room. Nor was the male model there. So . . .”

  “You ended it then and there?”

  “I said that if he stepped in my office again, I would quit. I meant it, and he believed me. Of course, I also said that I would skewer him with my letter opener. I meant that as well. Now, what about your stockbroker?”

  Tara hesitated. Ann already thought that she was dealing with madness where their grandfather was concerned. She wasn’t sure how to explain the feelings that had caused her to break off her relationship with a really nice, attractive guy.

  “Well?” Ann persisted. “I’ve certainly laid my heart and the truth on the table!”

  “It just wasn’t right.”

  “Just wasn’t right? You said that he was good looking, polite, charming, and sexy! Did he become unsexy?”

  “No.”

  Ann shook her head. “He made a decent income, he wasn’t a starving artist, he didn’t play ridiculous music in a coffee shop?”

  Tara laughed. “No, there was nothing in the least wrong with Jacob. He’s a gr
eat person. I can’t really explain this. He wanted to move in together, buy a ring ... and I backed away. It just wasn’t . . . right. I don’t know how else to explain this . . .” she finished lamely. She really didn’t know how to explain why she had broken up with Jacob. He had understood about her coming to Paris. And yet . . .

  She’d had the oddest feeling about coming here. As if she’d been waiting for this trip—this time—all her life.

  And . . . there had been the dream.

  She had plans to come to Paris, a little bit later, but while she was working on a deadline, trying to decide on the right date, she’d gone to sleep and . . .

  Been in Paris. She had seen the city beneath her as her plane landed. She had seen the city she loved, the spires of Notre Dame, the rise of the Eiffel Tower. She had seen herself with Ann, sitting at the café, driving out to the village. And then . . . a mist had rolled in, and she was walking. Walking through the woods in the surrounding countryside, intent on her destination. And as she walked, she had been afraid.

  Afraid of the shadows that surrounded the place, shadows that twisted and moved and formed strange shapes, and seemed to whisper. She didn’t know if the whispers were words that beckoned her onward, or if they were warnings. But she had to get to the house, and it had something to do with her grandfather. Every step brought greater fear, and greater determination. Through a field of tangled trees and shrubbery, she could see a structure ahead. It seemed to glow with a strange yellow light, like that of the moon sifting through clouds and mist. And in her mind, she was repeating the words help me over and over again, though she wasn’t sure who it was she was calling to, only that she believed, had to believe that he would be there.

  She had awakened with perfect logic, explaining to herself that the dream was all about her grandfather. She adored him. And he was in trouble. She needed to reach him because of his illness. She was being selfish and foolish by not getting on the first plane she could in order to be with him. The dream was a warning that her grandfather needed her, and her fear of shadows was her fear of illness.

  And at the same time, despite all her logic, she felt that some cycle in life was ending, and that another was about to begin. Oddly enough, whatever it was, she had been waiting for it all her life, and now was the time.

  Which brought up Jacob. She did care for him. He was wonderful, full of fun, sensual, a down-to-earth bastion to balance her flights of fantasy. But there was simply something else out there, and she had to go to Paris, and discover what it was.

  Somewhat insane. And yet . . .

  The right thing to do.

  Crazy, but right. How, she couldn’t begin to fathom. She didn’t intend to stay in Paris forever. It wasn’t her home. New York was.

  Yet the call to Paris, and whatever she was seeking, was ridiculously strong.

  “Maybe I should go to New York with you and meet Jacob,” Ann said, wrenching Tara out of her reverie.

  “Maybe,” Tara said, “I guess I just wasn’t . . . in love with him.” Ann could be so totally down to earth and practical. There was no way that Tara could explain her feelings to Ann.

  Ann shook her head in confusion. “Great. You give up Mr. Perfect, and then you give me a hard time? The man I love cheats, and you think I should listen to him. You have someone open, honest, and loyal, but you’re just not in love.”

  “I do care about him, a great deal. But not enough.”

  Ann was silent a few minutes, watching her, and then shrugged. “Well, look at the two of us! We definitely should go bar hopping. It’s not the way to meet the right man, but work is definitely not the right place either. And I do nothing else except work, so it seems.”

  “We really should go out—only semi on the prowl—and we will,” Tara said. “But not tonight. I’m so tired. I don’t think that I could deal with the excitement of a good-looking man. Or a nice one. Or even an ugly fellow who wanted to buy me a drink.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, then. Let’s get on to the chateau. You can hear for yourself what Grandpapa is saying. You can talk to him this afternoon, and I will go back to work.”

  “Maybe you and Willem will work it out.”

  “I carry my letter opener with me always,” Ann said, lifting her hand to the waiter to signal for the check.

  Ann insisted on paying. As they were rising, she suddenly froze for a moment, then caught Tara’s arm, turning her about on the sidewalk.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Let’s just go. Hurry.”

  “What is it?”

  “Willem,” Ann muttered.

  “Willem? Where?”

  Tara tried to turn, anxious to see the man her cousin had been so deeply involved with. Ann kept dragging her along, but she was able to catch a quick glimpse of the man. He was tall and blond, wearing a designer business suit, very suave. A lock of hair fell over the darkness of his sunglasses as he paused to light a cigarette before choosing the café table they had just vacated.

  “Don’t stare! Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Well, you still work with him. You could introduce me. Then I could be a better judge of his character.”

  “He has no character. Let’s go.”

  Ann dragged her along. Tara couldn’t help but look back. As she did so, she was certain that the man was watching them leave, though she could see nothing of his eyes through the glasses. He was appealing in a very smooth way that would have fit very well with Ann’s cool veneer of sophistication.

  His attention was taken from her as he was joined by another man at the table. Willem apparently knew the fellow he was meeting. He rose, and, American style, shook the man’s hand. The other fellow was light as well. Tall, with sandy blond hair, and, beneath his business suit, he appeared to be in excellent condition. They were moving too quickly for Tara to make out his features; he, too, wore sunglasses.

  Nearly tripping, Tara looked forward for a moment. She was startled by an uneasy feeling, a sense of being watched—or stalked, even. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and a bolt of icy adrenaline shot through her, causing her to shiver.

  She looked back.

  Neither of the men was at the table. Tara stopped where she stood on the busy street, staring back, puzzled. The two had simply vanished.

  “He met someone,” Tara said.

  “He’s the head of sales! He’s always meeting someone,” Ann said impatiently. “And I have to get you home, and come back in and do some work. Please, let’s get moving!”

  Tara gave herself a shake. She was tired. She hated the long flight over the Atlantic. She loved Europe, but hated getting here. She smiled ruefully at herself. It was really a beautiful Paris morning.

  “Tara!”

  “I’m coming.”

  Moments later, they were in the car, heading out of the city.

  “He has an interesting look,” Tara commented, watching her cousin.

  “I don’t care to talk about him anymore.” Ann still seemed distracted. “There is more to worry about than a lying, cheating, man. There is Grandpapa.”

  “Is there more you should be telling me?” Tara asked.

  “I have told you that he is a lying cheat. Is there more?”

  “I meant about Grandpapa.”

  “Ah.” Ann glanced at her. “We’ll be home soon enough. When you see him, you’ll understand.”

  “But his health is good?”

  “Not good, but better. He has made a sound comeback from his bout with pneumonia. It’s as if he’s willing himself to get better and be strong. One thing that has bothered me is that he’s incredibly concerned with an archeological dig going on in our village . . . seems they’ve dug to the crypts of the ruins of the old church. Grandpapa wakes first thing in the morning, looking for the newspaper. He’s asked me to go see what they’re doing. He pores over those ancient books of his, and gets all excited. He wants to go himself, but the doctors have told h
im that he mustn’t, that the air in such a place would be extremely bad for him. When he heard it might actually kill him, he realized that he couldn’t go. He is determined to stay alive. He is trying to stay healthy, and guard himself, but he has been driving me crazy to go down there.”

  “And have you gone?”

  Ann shook her head. “I am not feeding into his fantasies! I told him that the crypts are off limits to tourists and that I have no way to get into the dig.”

  “Is that true?”

  “It was true,” Ann said, flashing Tara a little smile of guilt. “They were worried about the integrity of the underground structure. I don’t really know what the situation is right now. There were a few write-ups in the paper when they began, but now, there may be a column or two every few days.” She glanced at Tara and shrugged as she drove. “Okay, I think they have opened the dig to tourists. I’m not sure why. We’re really nothing more than a little village on the outskirts of a big city—Paris offers the visitor so many major attractions that a small dig doesn’t usually get much attention. Some professor involved is certain that he’s on to a major historical find, but he doesn’t seem to generate much enthusiasm from his colleagues. And most people come to Paris to see the art and beauty. Those with a morbid twist to their minds can crawl down into the catacombs and see thousands of bones.”

  “Perhaps Grandpapa is all excited mainly because the ruins are in our little village. He grew up here, lived a lot of his life here. Maybe he feels that there is a family connection to this dig.”

  “I asked him that,” Ann said. “He was appalled, assuring me that we had nothing to do with ground that was deconsecrated. But then, hey, you’re not exactly a seasoned Parisian, but you have been to what’s world famous and historical here. If you want to tramp around in a crypt, be my guest.”

  “But you said you were afraid that it would feed into his fantasies.”