Loe raamatut: «Kiss Of Darkness»

HEATHER GRAHAM
Kiss of Darkness

To Rich Devin, Lance Taubold, Ripper,

Eddy and Jack (and, okay, the duck!),

to Tammy and Brian Russotto and Little Sly,

and Laura Mills-Alcott,

With love and thanks.

And very especially to Bayley Crow—

flooded out by Katrina to meet

Rita and Wilma down in south Florida!

—and her folks,

and the incredible city of New Orleans.

Thanks!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

About the Author

Coming Next Month

Please visit New Orleans. This wonderful city,

with its unique heritage, still needs our help.

The Gulf area in general remains desperate,

but we can help by pouring our tourist dollars into

the shops, restaurants and hotels of this region.

Prologue

The land was drenched with blood, after years of desperate fighting, and there would be more.

The knight sat atop his horse at the side of his king, watching as the troops rode through the valley below. Behind them rode Father Gregore, the warrior priest who had so often accompanied the new king on his quest to obtain and hold his domain, murmuring in Latin.

The king cursed softly. “Damn them. So many,” he added, turning to his knight. “After all these years, the feeble son feels he must prove himself to be the equal of his father. Sweet Jesu, will we forever be fighting this scourge? If the invaders reach the village, we will see a savagery beyond anything we have witnessed yet, not to show strength, as it might have been with the father, but because he longs to give the lie to his very weakness.” He spoke with disgust and a hard-won right to bitterness.

The breeze shifted, bringing with it a chill. The knight looked up, noting the sky. Darkness would come early, and according to the priest it would come earlier still today, for what Father Gregore called the Demon Moon would be upon them that night. Gregore was a great astronomer, as well as a healer. Many men had survived the field of battle because of his prowess.

Gregore was an interesting man, to say the least. He had studied for the priesthood in Rome. His father had been a highlander, an ambassador to the papal court. His mother, according to local legend, had been a witch.

Father Gregore had acted strangely throughout the day, cursing and muttering much more than usual. Now, as they assessed their enemy’s strength and planned their defense, he seemed stranger still. The knight respected the priest, though he was wary of his many incantations, intoned in a language bearing no resemblance to anything the knight had ever heard. A chill ran up his spine—an unusual sensation. He had faced ruthless enemies on the field again and again. He had watched his kinsmen and friends fall. Long ago, he had set his mind to the task with the knowledge he could never look anywhere but straight ahead, that there could be nothing but the fight for freedom to guide them.

“He rides with the Devil’s own henchman,” Father Gregore muttered savagely.

The knight forced the sounds of the priest’s voice from his mind and focused on the scene below. He pointed to the glen and the river, and the great tor beyond. “There,” he said softly. “There is where we must stop them.”

“They’ll attack by day,” the king mused.

“I don’t think we dare make that supposition,” the knight said.

The king sat very still. “My household rests in that glen.”

The knight was very aware of that, as well as the fact that the king had a number of illegitimate children. He had married for love; his bride had braved her own family’s disapproval for her husband. But there had been long times when they had been parted.

One of the king’s by blood, a daughter, had quite recently come of age. She attended the queen, who bore her no malice. Like her father, she was fierce, loyal and dauntless. Like her mother, late of the Isle of Skye, she was beautiful. She was adept with a small bow, and had used her weapon successfully against the enemy. Her wit was as quick as her shot. Bold with her laugher, her ability to tease and seduce, she epitomized everything the knight fought for: the fierce, wild spirit of the land. A challenge, proud and independent, she had captured his mind along with his heart. Sometimes, sleeping on the rocky ground, he closed off the sounds of the night and the smell of blood. He felt himself seduced anew in his mind, a hint of the scent of her skin and the feel of her flesh teasing him in his dreams.

He turned to the king. “They will not wait.” He pointed skyward to the rising moon. “It’s Father Gregore’s Demon Moon. They will see by its light, crimson and shadowed as that may be.”

The king gasped suddenly and caught the warrior’s arm. The knight looked down to the glen below, and his breath caught, as had his liege’s. There was suddenly a great burst of laughter among the men there as what had apparently been a small scouting party made a triumphant return. Horses burst through the pass, hooves pounding, the riders shouting loudly enough to be heard by the force looking down on them.

“A prize. A prize for our great king!” a man roared.

And then the knight saw. The king’s daughter Igrainia, his own true love, bruised and muddied, straight and defiant still, was seated before one of the raiders, who shoved her from the horse at the feet of the very man who was now their most hated enemy. Yet thrown hard, the wind knocked from her, she rose quickly, her chin high as she looked into the eyes of their foe.

Their enemy stared at the girl, then at his men. “The others?” he inquired.

“Dead,” the rider said, and spat. “At her hands.”

“And the queen?”

“Escaped—while this one mowed down our men.”

“And the so-called king of these outlaws?”

“Nowhere to be found.”

The enemy king, sly though not brave, cruel if not strong, assessed her, then looked around slowly. He raised his voice high, shouting so his words were an echo in the strange and eerie light that already seemed to be rising around them. “She shall die a traitor’s death! By the full rise of the moon, she shall die.”

The knight’s horse pawed at the earth of the cliff. The king again set a hand upon his arm. “Hold.”

“I will go alone,” the knight said. It felt as if his blood were boiling.

“Demon Moon,” the priest muttered behind him. “She is lost already.”

The knight ignored him. “I will not let her die without a fight,” he told the king. “She is your flesh and blood. Too many times she has risked herself to save others. I cannot let her die without a fight.”

“You cannot die needlessly. They know that we are near, that we are listening,” the king said. “We must plan.”

The knight looked at the king. “There is a way.” He pointed out the river, which was but a rill upstream, the jagged cliffs opposite their position. The cairns to the northwest, where they could escape through labyrinths, the enemy could not know.

The king listened gravely. Other nobles and knights came closer. The plan was decided.

“Pay heed,” Father Gregore demanded suddenly.

The king looked up, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He gave the orders to his men to circle to their positions, then rode to the edge of the cliff again.

The knight followed him. His stomach quickened.

Below, they were playing a taunting game with the king’s daughter, tossing her from man to man. She didn’t cry out. Her life had taught her stoicism.

A man grabbed her, pulled her close, then let out a scream as she bit his lip and kneed his groin. “My God, I’ll kill her!” he shrieked, drawing his sword.

The enemy king laughed. “So quickly? You are no match for her. But we ride this night with one who is.”

“The Devil’s own appears,” Gregore muttered. “But you must hold,” he warned the knight.

The enemy king lifted a hand as, from the throng of cavalry and foot soldiers, strode a man. He was taller than others, a black cloak around his shoulders and a painted black helm upon his head. He walked with confidence, approaching the girl.

The knight’s blood quickened; he gritted his teeth, fighting desperately for control.

This man had long been a servant of the enemy. The knight had met him in battle before, knew that at least once, he had inflicted grave damage upon him.

He remembered when they had last met. They had fought savagely, so savagely that he had believed he had killed his opponent, for he had managed a thrust to the throat. He had seen the blood gush and spill, the man fall, his life choking from him, his final words a curse and a vow that revenge would be his.

But rumor said that his foe had refused to die. That he had called upon Satan himself for succor.

Some whispered that Satan had sent one of his concubines to the earl. That she had given him a kiss, and therein sealed his pact with the Devil. He had not died, and the word that went across the country—terrifying his friends, it was said, as well as his foes—was that he had become invincible.

He was referred to now, in tones of awe and fear, as the Master.

And now that loathsome being had the king’s daughter in his power.

She would fight. The knight knew this in his heart. A feeling like death itself stole his breath. She would fight, and she would die. He had no prayer of reaching her, of perishing in her defense.

But she did not fight; she made no move. She merely stared at the damned warrior as he approached.

The man lifted his helm, his face shaded by the growing red moon. He seized the girl, drew her close beneath his cloak.

Suddenly she came to life. She screamed and raged, fought hard and somehow drew away, clasping her neck. With stunning speed, she stole the sword from the noble at the king’s left side. She swung it high and strong, despite its staggering weight. The cloaked man moved back; the warrior at his side was not so quick, and he died in agony.

Before she could strike again, a dozen men were upon her. She was instantly captured and bound, dragged to a tree, where faggots were quickly set. All the while, she swore in defiance. She cursed those who would murder her. “You will die,” she promised the enemy king. “You, too, will die in an agony of fire. Your insides will burn, as your soul races toward the fires of an eternal hell!” she shouted.

The black-cloaked figure turned, staring at the surrounding countryside. “See, Ioin? My power is greater now than any you will ever know. She is mine. Come, save her now, if you dare.”

The fire was lit.

Father Gregore crossed himself, muttered a prayer and drew his sword.

The knight knew he could wait no longer. He would defy the king.

But atop the tor, the king gave the signal to his haggard army.

And from the heights, they rode down upon the enemy. Battle cries split the air, and they rode like the berserkers, those maddened Viking raiders whose blood ran in the veins of so many there. The enemy outnumbered them, but they were part of the land beneath their feet, and many of those who rode with the enemy were paid for their services and had no heart for the battle.

The knight could smell the fire.

And in his mind, he heard her cry his name. It wasn’t a cry for help, but one of loss, of sadness beyond life, beyond the grave. In reply, he called out her name, and his fury created a sound like thunder and seemed to shake the earth. He strode through death, defying it, ignoring it. He reached the tree and burst through the flames, ignoring the scorching of his own flesh. He slashed through the ties that bound her, and she fell, still, silent…lifeless…into his arms.

A roar of pure rage escaped him. He looked for the cloaked man, but did not see him.

The enemy rushed him, and he was forced to lay her down. He sensed the death at his back, and he turned, raised his sword, parried and slashed without stopping.

He felt the darkness, deep, overwhelming. Crimson. He spun once more, ready to swing with wearied arms, fighting the burning in his muscles.

But there was no one. Nothing. And she…

She was gone.

The enemy swept closer again, and, stunned, he was nearly taken. Only instinct saved him. He turned in time to smite his opponent, and the battle grew ever more frenzied. He fought on, heedless, his mind numbed.

Swords clashed again and again. Battle-axes split skulls. Soon the footing was treacherous, blood mingling with the dirt. Then came the blast of a horn, and the battle paused. The man before the knight smiled—just before he died. Then, keening on the breeze, came the eerie sound of unholy laughter.

It had been a trap. A trap from the beginning. They had seen only a fraction of the troops riding with the enemy. More were arriving, storming through the pass.

The knight turned in time to slash the throat of the infantryman behind him, who had meant to stab him through the back. He saw the king, and rational thought took over once again. He strode over blood, bodies, limbs, and reached the place where the king fought. Savagely, he battled by his ruler’s side, willing to fight unto death, until he was overwhelmed.

Because death would be welcome. She was dead, his soul cried. Dead and gone. All that was left was to find her remains.

“Go!” the knight roared above the clash of steel. A cohort was there with a horse. The king’s followers thrust him behind themselves, forcing him to the horse. A pipe played, and the defenders began to slip away, heading for the caves and tunnels they knew so well. The battle continued to rage. They could not all escape; someone had to remain so the others might survive to fight another day.

The knight looked up briefly. The moon was full in the sky, as red as the bloody field around him. The mist that had fallen was the same crimson shade. It was as if he stood in a fog of blood. And in his heart and mind, he was dead already.

His time had come. He did not damn God or fate. She was lost, and he could only pray that there was indeed a heaven, that he would find her there. He had killed, true, but his cause had been a righteous one.

He closed his eyes for a split second, then opened them, roared out a warning and strode into the melee.

They fell before him, man after man. He knew his rage at that moment was not for the future, not for a dream.

It was for her.

He didn’t know if blood or sweat dripped into his eyes, for he moved in a red haze. He was dimly aware of someone near him, the sound of an incantation.

And then a blow against his head sent him down, spiraling into darkness, an endless bloodred night.

He opened his eyes. There was darkness, there was shadow.

There was sensation.

He hadn’t expected this. Had God spurned him?

Warmth surrounded him. He heard the crackling of a fire. He blinked and realized he was not dead after all.

A massive shadow loomed on the wall, then resolved itself into Father Gregore. The man came to his side, bringing water. The knight swallowed, his head cradled by the powerful hand of the strange priest.

“The battle…?” he asked.

“It is over. Long over,” the priest said. “Sip slowly.”

The knight looked around. They were in a cave. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening, early or late. He knew only that the red mist was gone. Gone, too, was the scent of scorched flesh, the awful smell of blood and death.

Gone, too, was the woman he had loved.

“How long have I been here?” the knight asked.

“A very long time.”

“My lady…I took her from the fire. And then she was gone. I’ve got to find her.”

The priest looked at him, studying him for a long time. “Yes, you do,” he said softly.

“I must hurry,” the knight muttered.

The priest stopped him. “You must heal.”

“But…I have to find her.”

“A little more time won’t matter,” the priest said, and sat back. The glow of the fire touched his features. “You have to help me heal you. I am not entirely a miracle worker. There will be time.”

“But she is in danger.”

“Yes. She is your quest. Her immortal soul cries out.”

“Then—”

“There is time, my son. Much has happened. There’s much I must tell you. Much you must learn.”

The fire snapped and crackled and the knight looked into the priest’s eyes….

It was only then that he began to understand.

1

Jessica Fraser listened to the music, the cool jazz tones. She had closed her eyes, and despite the voices, the scraping of chairs and clinking of glasses, she could filter everything else out and hear the music. She wished she could just give way to it, forget the night, forget work and her upcoming flight—even the very good friends surrounding her. From the moment she had first come to New Orleans, years ago now, she had been in love not just with the city’s sense of history and pulsing life, but with the sounds, especially the music. Tonight, for a few minutes, closing her eyes, she was alone. All she could feel was the music, as if it had entered her body and soul, and soothed her.

Of course, few people actually considered Bourbon Street to be soothing.

Yet even as she listened to the music, savoring the feeling of calm, a sense that all was not well startled her. She opened her eyes and looked around, plagued by a sudden and yet very disturbing feeling that she was being watched.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Maggie Canady asked, nudging Jessica.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“What you need to design,” Maggie said, “is a bathing suit for people with a little more body than they want to show.”

“Oh, Maggie, just get one of those tankini things,” put in Stacey LeCroix, who helped Jessica with both her B and B and the designing she did, both sidelines, since Jessica’s real livelihood came as a practicing psychologist. Stacey was young, cute and thin as a reed.

Maggie sighed. “Honey, a tankini doesn’t do a thing in the world for too much rear and thunder thighs.”

Jessica couldn’t help but laugh as she looked across the table at Sean Canady, Maggie’s husband, a tall, well-built man who combined a look of complete authority with a handsome, strikingly rugged face, an asset in his job as a cop. “Please tell your wife she doesn’t have thunder thighs.”

Sean pushed back a thatch of thick blond hair and looked at his wife. “Maggie, you don’t have thunder thighs.”

It was a curious complaint, coming from Maggie, who tended to be far more serious and spent her time worrying about the fate of the world. She had been much occupied in the past months dealing with problems in the parish, the “coming back,” as they called it, of New Orleans. On top of that, she was a stunning woman with burnished auburn hair and hazel eyes that seemed to flash with gold. She was usually last person to feel insecure about her appearance. Maggie knew there were real evils in the world, but she tried not to worry about the possibilities—natural and otherwise—unless she had to.

Maggie sighed deeply. “Who knows? Maybe I just gained a bit more thigh with each of our three children. But I dream of a comfortable, good-looking bathing suit. Jessica, can’t you come up with something? Hey, Jessica—are you with us?”

Jessica started; she had been looking around, certain she would find someone watching her. But no one seemed the least bit interested in her or her table.

Maybe it was just the odd restlessness that had settled over her before she had even reached the club tonight, a restlessness she hadn’t been able to understand.

“Um…of course.” Jessica said, forcing her attention back to the conversation. “If you want a bathing suit that covers more of you, I can certainly design one for you.”

“It’s going to make for a really weird tan line,” Stacey warned.

Jessica looked at her assistant. Stacey was wonderful. She was a fireball of energy, just over five feet tall, but confident and even fiercely assertive at times—assertive, not aggressive, Stacey had once told her.

“This whole conversation is…” Jessica began, but caught herself before saying inane. She winced, wondering at the impatience she was feeling. It was as if she needed to be somewhere, doing something, but she had no idea where or what. Maybe she was just on edge about heading out to the conference.

Jessica turned to see a man heading toward them. Bobby Munro, Stacey’s latest boyfriend, was one of Sean’s fellow cops, tall, dark-haired and good looking.

He nodded at Sean. “Lieutenant.”

“Bobby, I thought you had to work,” Stacey said.

“I do, private party, around the corner,” Bobby said. “I just came to wish Jessica a good trip. And say hello to you, of course.” He stood behind Stacey, bent down and kissed the top of her head, then looked at Jessica. “You be careful, huh?”

Jessica groaned.

“It’s just a conference,” she said. She considered asking the others if they had been seized by any strange feelings, if they felt that eyes were secretively scrutinizing their every move, but forced herself not to. Sean was a cop, for God’s sake. If he saw or even felt anything, he would certainly say so. She was just on edge because going to a conference in Romania wasn’t exactly her usual thing.

Bobby waved and left, and once he was gone, Sean leaned forward again.

“You’re awfully tense for someone heading off to a simple professional conference,” he said. “Hell, Jessica…it’s a foreign country.”

“It’s not a trip into the deepest jungle, Sean. Romania is very much a part of the modern world,” she said.

“We should be going with you.”

Jessica waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I—” Stacey began.

“I need you here to take care of things. I’m just going to a conference.”

“Still,” Sean observed, “you’re awfully tense. Do you want a drink?”

“I’m not tense,” Jessica informed him quickly. Yes, she realized, she was. She had practically snapped at Sean. She was tense—and she had no idea why. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…” She stared at her friends. She just couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood suddenly, feigning a yawn. “Guys, excuse me, will you? I leave tomorrow, and I guess I’m a little on edge.”

“I knew it.” Sean said. “You are worried about your trip.”

“No, just antsy, I guess. But I think I’ll head home,” Jessica said.

“I think I’ll leave, too,” Stacey said, rising. “It’s too bad you’re not going on a real vacation. You need one. You aren’t yourself tonight. Maybe psychologists need psychologists more than anyone else. Maybe you should be taking a trip to a mountain cabin. This is just more pressure, and very strange. I mean, seriously, who ever heard of a psychologists’ convention in Romania?”

“I’m an experienced traveler, so don’t worry about me. This will be almost like a vacation, I’ll do all kinds of wonderful touristy things,” Jessica assured her.

“Will you go to Dracula’s castle, walk in the mist-shrouded woods and listen for werewolves?” Maggie asked.

“Exactly,” Jessica said, smiling. “I’ll be back in a week.”

Sean laughed. “I hardly think Jessica needs to worry about vampires and werewolves. For God’s sake, she’s from New Orleans, land of voodoo—and all the crazies who think they’re zombies and vampires.”

“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.