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“He has a point,” Jessica assured Maggie.
“I know, it’s just that…I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“I’m going, and it’s going to be a great experience. I’m grateful you all care. I love you, and good night.” Jessica hugged them all, then left, walking past the stage on her way out. She lifted a hand and waved to Big Jim, the trumpet player.
He was a huge man, his skin was like ebony, yet he played his instrument with a delicacy that belied his size. There was an angel’s touch in his music. He also had great instincts about people and situations, perhaps handed down by his family, many of whom were known in the local voodoo community.
Like Sean and Maggie, he’d befriended her when she’d first moved to the parish. He looked at her now, shaking his head with a sigh. Then he quietly mouthed the words to her, “Be careful.”
She mouthed in reply, “Always.”
He still didn’t look happy. But then, Big Jim’s mother had been a voodoo priestess, and he was a definite believer that things weren’t always what they seemed. She lowered her head, hiding the secret grin that teased her lips. Bless him. He was such a good guy. Just like a big brother.
Band member Barry Larson, lanky, in his thirties, a transplant from somewhere in the Midwest, covered his mike with his free hand. “Hey, gorgeous. You have a good trip and come home safe, okay?”
“Of course.”
He smiled deeply. He was nice, a little bit geeky. She’d been afraid when she first met him that he’d had something of a crush on her, but he’d never said anything and over time had become a good friend.
She left the club, glad that the French Quarter was back to its busy, even a little bit crazy, self. It was just around eleven, a time when the streets were at their busiest. She quickly walked the three blocks to her house, then, at her gates, paused for a minute. There was a stirring in the air. Rain tomorrow, she thought, and looked up at the sky.
She didn’t like what she saw. As she hurried toward the front door, she reminded herself that Gareth Miller was in the cottage at the rear, once the old smokehouse. Gareth was great. In return for a place to live, he kept an eye on the place, and on her and Stacey. He was a quiet man, kind of like a reticent hippie, with his slight slouch and longish, clean but unkempt hair.
He was another of the good friends she’d made here, and her home was safe in his keeping.
Even so, she paused again halfway up the walkway, staring heavenward. Again the sense of urgency assailed her, a feeling that she needed to be moving quickly.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need a real vacation, she thought. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind.
She almost laughed aloud at the idea of a vacation when she was feeling this terrible need to hurry, to get ahead of something….
Of someone?
Too bad. There was nothing she could do about it now. The plane would leave the next day, and she would be on it.
Jessica couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed, strangely aware of time passing.
In the middle of the night, she walked outside to her balcony, which faced the street. She loved her house, and it was sheer luck that she’d been able to buy it. Amazingly, the winds and flooding from hurricane Katrina that had devastated so much of the parish had done very little damage to the Quarter or her house. The house was quite large, and she was able to keep it because, with Stacey’s help, she ran it as a very selective bed-and-breakfast. Her practice, which she ran out of the house, was a good one; in psychology, she had found the perfect vocation. And, on the side, she designed one-of-a-kind costumes for various Mardi Gras krewes.
From a distance, she could very faintly hear the sounds of music and laughter, carried on the breeze from the French Quarter.
She looked at the sky again. Absurdly, it appeared as if there was a hint of red in the night air. A hint of red that seemed to grow stronger as she watched and the darkness seemed to take almost physical form around her.
“Ridiculous,” she told herself.
She imagined herself with a shrink. “I don’t actually see the dark…I feel it.”
For a moment, a chill seized her as the darkness seemed to loom, like a hint, a warning. A deep red darkness…
It made her feel as if she was being hunted. Stalked.
She stepped back into her room, locking the balcony doors, trying to fight the feeling.
But she was oddly afraid. As she hadn’t been in ages.
She stayed awake, staring at the sky, certain the darkness was turning a still deeper red as she watched.
Her friends had felt it, too, she thought. That was why they’ve been so nervous about her trip.
This was ridiculous, she told herself. When the conference had been announced, it had immediately intrigued her. And now she was committed to speak. She had to go, and that was that, even though her initial excitement was gone.
What the hell had changed? she wondered. Or was it all in her mind?
Suddenly, she felt dizzy. The world before her seemed to shift and change. She was no longer in her bedroom but outside, staring up at a high ridge, and atop the ridge stood a man. He was exceptionally tall, a cape billowing around him in the breeze.
And he was the epitome of evil.
Evil that was stalking her. An ancient evil that lurked somewhere in a strange and distant memory that couldn’t be.
The Master.
The name flashed unbidden to her mind. She banished it immediately.
The vision faded. She was home again, in her own room, the peace and beauty barely disturbed by distant sounds from the street, the scent of magnolia blossoms heavy on the air.
She was losing her mind, she told herself impatiently. She needed some sleep.
The next day, alighting in Romania, she felt a chill the minute her feet touched the ground.
A disembodied voice announced arrivals and departures in a multitude of languages. The bright lights of the airport were all around her.
Yet she felt as if the world had darkened behind her, as if a shadow were following her. As she walked toward Customs, she stopped, swinging around, certain that footsteps right behind her were closing in on her. Panic almost overwhelmed her. She was convinced she was being followed, that she could feel hot breath—fetid breath—at her nape. Chills shivered up her spine.
She thought she heard her name whispered by a deep, mocking voice.
But when she turned, there was no one near her. Busy people, bored, anxious, were hurrying through the airport. No one seemed interested in her at all.
It was night again before she reached her final destination. And there, in the exquisite historic hotel, she felt the darkness again as she walked to her room.
She locked the door securely behind her, then waited, afraid, watching the door, wanting to believe she had worked with one too many an antisocial paranoid and their fears had simply rubbed off on her.
Nothing.
She turned away.
Then there was a sound, a clicking, as if someone were trying the door. And again, the whisper in her mind of her name. And something more.
Laughter.
You can’t hide. Wherever you go, I will find you….
“Are you coming with us?” Mary demanded, her expression seductive as she sat on the edge of Jeremy’s bed at the former seventeenth-century monastery, now a youth hostel, where they were staying. “I can’t believe I got the invite. Some girl on the street just came up to me and started talking. It’s a private club. There’s not even a sign on the door. She says people will be there from all over Europe. It’s in the ruins of some old cathedral. There was a Hungarian couple in the café, and they said it’s almost impossible to get into the local club scene, especially the “castle” vampire parties. But I got an invitation. And get this. They supposedly brought in a famous dominatrix to be the hostess. Celebrities even come to Transylvania to show up at these parties. I guarantee you, it’s the coolest thing we’ll do all year.”
Mary was gorgeous, an energetic pixie with brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of wheat blond hair. Jeremy was old enough, however, to know that going out with him hadn’t suddenly become the focus of her life. She wanted to get into this club, but she was scared, and she wanted friends with her.
In high school, he might have dropped everything to do what she wanted. Though he’d never been a first-string player, he’d made his way onto the football team just because she was a cheerleader. He’d learned the guitar because she loved musicians. He’d never set out to be one of the in-crowd, but somehow, in his quest for her approval, he’d become one. He’d kept his own brand of morality, though, and that had somehow made him more desirable—to all the girls but Mary.
He had to admit, he’d chosen to attend Tulane, in New Orleans, largely because of her. But he was past that. He was twenty-two, ready to graduate—with honors—and either accept a decent job offer, or head off to grad school. He had gained four inches since his eighteenth birthday, and time spent in the college gym had actually given him shoulders and a chest. He was serious and studious, something Mary had always teased him about, but something other girls seemed to appreciate. Once, he had worshiped Mary, now he saw her from a clearer perspective, but he still loved her, just more realistically, so he’d agreed to join her on this trip for their last spring break. Still, this wasn’t exactly like visiting England, or even France or Italy.
This was Transylvania. They had started in Bucharest, explored Walachia before heading into Sighisoara and dining in the ancient home—now a restaurant—where Vlad Tepes, the man who’d become known as Dracula, had been born. They had strolled medieval towns, visited dozens of churches, heard about history and architecture. Their guides had all spoken English. The Romanians were no fools. Americans were willing to spend lots of money to travel, to feel a part of myth and mystery—and buy souvenirs.
There were twenty students in their group, and luckily everyone got on well. Even better, they had crossed paths with an international convention of psychologists a few days earlier, and one of them was Jessica Fraser, who he’d met when she’d given a lecture at school. She had spent her free afternoon with them, and even claimed to remember meeting him. He had to admit, he’d developed a little bit of a crush on her. In fact, compared to her, Mary had started to seem kind of shallow and not at all interesting.
He had an uneasy feeling about this invitation of hers, too. He’d heard a little about the kind of parties she was talking about. Rumor had it that on top of the usual bondage scene, they were run by a group of people who actually believed that they were vampires.
“Mary, I don’t like it.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Jeremy. I’m a journalism major. Think what I can do with this story.”
Mary’s idea of journalism had landed them in several uncomfortable situations already. For about six months, he’d had an out, because he’d gotten into a serious relationship with a pretty English major. But she’d left the school when her mother got sick, and never returned. They had called each other every night for a while. Then the calls had become fewer and fewer. Even their e-mails had dwindled, until they’d finally drifted completely apart.
So here he was in Transylvania, and here was Mary, ready to use him again. No, that wasn’t fair, he told himself. She’d always been a good friend.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
She laughed. “Oh, Jeremy. Come on. You’ve been mourning Melissa too long. What’s the matter? Are you afraid you might get laid?”
“Mary,” he murmured. He hated it when she talked that way, no matter how liberated the world was supposed to be.
“Please, Jeremy. I’ve read up the recent surge of private sex clubs—there was an article in the paper a few months back about one right in New Orleans. No sign on the door. People come from all over, because they can do what they want to do there.”
“Yeah. Have silly rituals and slice their thumbs and suck each other’s blood. That’s pathetic, Mary.”
“No, it’s not. No one is allowed to push anyone else into doing anything they don’t want to do. The woman who wrote the article said she wasn’t hit on as much there as at a bar.”
“Maybe she’s old and ugly. And if there was already an article—”
Mary sighed. “Jeremy, I want to take this story national. An exposé—what’s going on here and in the States. Look, I’m going, with or without you. I won’t be going alone. Nancy agreed to come. But we need a guy. I mean, we’d like to have a guy with us. And, if you don’t go, what are you going to do? Play some dumb computer game all night?”
“Mary, I designed that game, and it’s going to get me a good job.”
To his amazement, she took his hands, pleading. “I want this story so badly, Jeremy. Please.”
“All right, fine. I’ll go.”
She jumped up, a brilliant smile on her face. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Ever.”
“Listen, Mary, when I say we have to leave—”
“We leave. Fine. Now, quit worrying. I always land on my feet.”
“How do we get there?” he demanded.
“It’s too cool. We head up that path toward the mountain, and we get picked up by a carriage.” Mary shook her head, smiling. “I still don’t know why that girl invited me. I guess I’m just lucky.”
I guess you’re just beautiful, he thought.
But he wanted her to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. He’d go, but he still didn’t like it.
He was still unhappy when Mary went to her room to change for the night. While she was gone, he went outside. The psychologists were all in the restored judicial palace across the street, now a four-star hotel.
He walked into the lobby and asked for Jessica Fraser, but she was already out for the evening.
What the hell was making him so uneasy?
Nervous enough that he wouldn’t dream of letting Mary go alone.
And nervous enough to dread the fact he was going to go.
He hesitated, then left a note.
A precaution.
Someone needed to know where they had gone.
2
In the shadows, PowerPoint flashed a new image on the screen. The ancient lecture hall was filled, and Bryan MacAllistair was amazed that the many students gathered here from around the world had listened to him thus far in rapt silence. He was nearing the end of his lecture, only a few more points to make.
“This is an eighteenth-century sketch of Katherine, Countess Valor, considered one of the greatest beauties of her time. She was charged with crimes so vile that the court records were sealed. Later, they were lost to a fire. Was she a real monster, or herself a victim of evil? Like Countess Bathory, she was a member of the aristocracy, and one of the many women to find riches as a mistress in the court of Louis XIV. History records a cult within his own house, members of his royal court who became involved in witchcraft. The lady in question is actually the focus of another lecture, but she has a connection to this area. She was condemned for witchcraft and murder but, miraculously, made an escape. Some say she turned to smoke and escaped between the bars of the Bastille. At the time, witch hunters could still make a living, and the price on her head was so high that she was hunted across the continent. The accepted belief was that she had made a pact with a demon, perhaps even Satan himself, in the guise of a fiend known as the Master. The Master, the legends say, is an anglicized form of an ancient Babylonian evil, a being sprung from the womb of the lamia, one of the very earliest vampire myths, a woman who sucked the life from infants. It’s said that Katherine escaped here, to Transylvania, where the Master had gained a foothold, seeking his help, his power.
“But perhaps this creature had become infuriated with her previous disregard of his power in her own pursuits, for he did not come to her aid when she reached these fog-shrouded mountains. The witch hunters found her here. She had run hard and fast, but with no followers, she had no guard to watch over her as she slept. The witch hunters came upon her, and they immediately axed her beautiful neck. The story goes that there was a hideous outcry from her deadly lips, and she spilled more blood than might have filled the veins of a dozen good women. Not satisfied that the removal of her head would keep her evil at bay, they chopped her into pieces, then burned those pieces in an inferno they kept going for thirteen days and thirteen nights, thirteen being the number of members in a coven, the number of diners at the ill-fated last supper, when Christ was betrayed. At any rate, there was little doubt she was dead when her pursuers finished with her.
“Did she in life really consume the blood of countless virgins in order to perform magic not only for the nobility but for the king himself? Or was she the victim of jealous rumor, and did time itself create the monster? That is the question we all must answer for ourselves.”
He waved to the crowd of spring-break students who had filled the old guildhall and headed down from the podium. As he walked, he was met with a thunder of applause. He hurried down the aisle, anxious to escape. Ostensibly, he had come to teach; he was actually on the trail of the monster.
When he’d found out he was coming to Transylvania, he’d promised his friend, Robert Walker, dean of history at the local university, that he would give a speech. But he’d had to sandwich it in between his commitments and now he was running late.
He had done a lot of traveling lately, he reflected, watching what seemed to be the awakening of an ancient evil.
He left the guildhall behind and reached the large village square. And there, despite his haste, he paused and looked up. The sky seemed to be roiling. There was a moon, not a full moon, but a crescent. It gave scant light, and even that was extinguished when the clouds moved over it.
There was a hint of red in the moon’s glow, and even in the shadows when that glow was gone. He didn’t like the night. He’d spent most of his life traveling, studying the evils one man did to another in the name of belief.
He picked up his pace, eager to reach his hotel.
In the lobby, he paused, feeling the sense that something…someone…was there. He turned around. Nothing. No one. It didn’t matter. He’d received enough of a warning when he’d been in London. He knew what he was facing.
“Professor, your key,” the young man behind the desk said.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Again, he looked around the lobby.
Then he reminded himself that he was out of time, and he hurried up the stairs.
Jessica sipped her wine, staring at the fire burning in the grate. The flames fascinated her, rising, falling, lapping at the ancient stone of the hearth. Gold, red, even a touch of blue…
“Don’t you agree, Miss Fraser? That society itself has created so many of the difficulties our children face? Society and the modern world, with its bombs and wars?”
She stared across at the sturdy German professor who had spoken to her. They had been talking about dealing with teenage angst. She blinked, realizing she didn’t have the least idea what he had said in the last few minutes. That morning, she had given her speech. She had been asked to speak about teenage fantasies, and setting troubled youth on the right path. The German had been quizzing her endlessly, it seemed, apparently quite taken by her ideas.
She had to get out.
Why? she taunted herself. Why was she so eager to escape into the night when she was suddenly afraid of shadows?
Confront your fears. It was one of her own doctrines.
“A very difficult time, yes,” she agreed, and rose, smiling. Watching the fire had been like an opiate. She felt positively serene.
Surrounded by…normalcy.
“Excuse me, will you? It’s a bit late, and I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged suddenly. Good night.”
The desperate urge to escape—even to hide—was on her again. She had to force herself not to run out of the restaurant.
She looked at her watch, disturbed to see it had grown later than she had expected. She started briskly walking across the square to her hotel.
Confront your fears. She had done so, hadn’t she? She would do so.
In the middle of the square, she found herself pausing. She looked up at the sky and shuddered. The night was red.
She heard something and swung around. Her breath eased from her lungs. It was just an old couple, hand in hand, out for a stroll. She turned and started walking again. Her nape grew cold. Ice cold. It felt as if the darkness was following her. Looming ever closer…just a breath away. She spun around. The square was empty. She quickened her pace, trying to be calm, logical, attempting not to give in to sheer insanity and run.
Light blazed from her hotel. She was almost running as she neared the entry.
A man was exiting, arm in arm with an attractive woman. They were laughing. Lights shone behind them. Jessica recognized the man; he was an American movie idol. She gave no sign she recognized him, but thanked him as he held the door, then hurried in.
The shadows were gone. The darkness was gone. She let out a breath, shaking her head. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. She strode to the desk, smiling as she asked for her key, the old-fashioned kind that was always kept by the concierge. He gave her the key, along with a note.
She read the message left by the college student she had run into earlier, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She looked at the stately concierge, with his graying hair and upright stance. “Where is the police station?”
She felt it again. There, in the bright light of the lobby. Felt it. The darkness, so black, and yet….
Red.
It was time for her to act.
Literally.
“Oh, my God!” Mary said. “That must be her, the dominatrix the Hungarians were talking about.”
Jeremy stared at the woman. She couldn’t be missed, and not only because of the black leather mask hiding her eyes. Her hair was pitch black, her skin fair. She was wearing black leather pants that clung to her form, showing little, but somehow emphasizing the perfection of her hips and thighs. When he forced his eyes upward, he saw she was also clad in a sheer black blouse over high, full breasts—he had to look twice to realize she was wearing a skin-toned top beneath the blouse. She was completely and decently clad, but the outfit still had an erotic appeal. In this case, more was less. He tried to stop staring. The sight of her was kicking his libido into overdrive. It was a strange feeling.
But then, strange feelings had been coming on ever since Mary had first talked to him about the party that afternoon.
She had been thrilled all during the ride in the black carriage, drawn by two black horses, that had taken them deep into the woods. The carriage had felt like something out of an old-time horror film, as had the ride through the fog-drenched trees. Nancy, a cute redhead, also in the journalism school, had been every bit as excited. She had stared out the window every few seconds, saying, “Can you believe this?”
She said it again now as they stood there, just inside the entry.
“Can you believe this?”
Mary nudged her. “Nancy, don’t gawk. We’ll look totally out of place.”
Jeremy was fairly certain they didn’t look as if they belonged to begin with. The girls had dressed in miniskirts and boots, but it was cold out, so they were also wearing tights and sweaters and heavy coats. He was in his usual tourist garb, jeans and a sweater. But here…
People were in every manner of dress. And undress. Several wore traditional vampire capes, but they weren’t in the majority. A few of the women were topless. One, a redhead of about thirty, was naked. She wore nothing but a belly-button ring and a silver belt. An extremely well built black man strode by, and he, too, was in the buff, except for a flapping loincloth. A few of the men smoking and drinking at the bar wore coats—at least some people in the place recognized the fact it was cold out.