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When he closed the door, Ms. Turner motioned to the worktable. “May I get you something? Coffee? Beignets? I just made them fresh this morning.”
“Ben-what?” he asked, confused, but he took a seat at the table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.
“French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.
“Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.
Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”
“Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”
Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.
As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.
“Would you like some more, Detective?”
A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”
“We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.
“A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”
“I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”
“Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”
“Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”
“Passersby with two bullets in them?”
Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”
He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”
Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”
“You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down and act as a witness. Or we can go—”
“Down to the precinct,” she finished for him even as she reached for the buttons on her blouse.
“Please turn around, and lower the shirt.”
She did as he asked, revealing the upper part of her back, unmarred except for a myriad of faint uneven lines. Old scars?
She gazed at him over her shoulder and he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. There was so much pain, so much fear and anguish in her gaze she couldn’t hide it.
Without thinking, Peter laid a finger on one of the pale lines. Her skin was as cold as ice.
She wrenched away from him. “Don’t.” She grasped the opening of her blouse as she whirled to face him.
Peter took a step back, shocked at his own actions. At what he was feeling about this woman he’d only just met. He’d had enough of women in his life, after all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Do you need anything else, Detective…? Come to think of it, just what is your name?”
“Daly. Peter Daly from the twenty-third. Who did that to you? Mr. Turner?” Instinctively his hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting punishment on her behalf.
Anger emanated from him. Samantha cringed and stepped away. “It was a long time ago and I’m over it.” Not that she really was. Her reaction to his touch had proven that. “Please. Just go.”
He hesitated, clearly troubled, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
Samantha didn’t know how to read his offer. Had she just gone from suspect to victim? If the former, he’d be back.
As for the latter, the good detective was obviously a man used to not only dealing with violence, but meting it out when necessary. And more violence was the last thing she needed in her life. “Goodbye, Detective.”
“Not goodbye, Ms. Turner. We’ll be seeing each other again.”
Any other woman might have viewed a further visit from the handsome detective with anticipation.
It was an indication of the state of her undead life that she viewed it with dread.
Chapter 3
Samantha Turner was a frickin’ saint. Or at least, that’s what most people believed along the block where the shelter was located. The funny thing was, when asked if they’d had any personal contact with Ms. Turner, most said they’d never seen her. The remainder had only seen her once or twice.
The one thing they all agreed on was that the area had gotten better in the three years since Samantha had opened the shelter.
A one-woman frickin’ social improvement campaign.
Peter didn’t know why he was so annoyed about the supposed sainthood of Samantha Turner. Maybe it was because he knew that behind a woman’s beautiful face and virtuous ways was often a soul filled with deception.
His ex-wife had been beautiful. She’d been sweet and oh-so-needy of Peter’s attentions. Warm, willing and waiting for him, even when he’d worked the long hours required of a beat cop. He’d been working his way up the ranks so he could provide for a wife and family. Oh, how he’d looked forward to the day when they could have children and buy that home they’d always wanted.
Peter slapped shut the file on his desk. Glancing into the squad room, he realized no one had even noticed. There was too much going on.
Just as there had been too much going on in his life for him to notice what his wife was doing when he was gone. Eventually she had walked out on him with her lover and their life savings.
Beautiful is as beautiful does.
Samantha Turner was an exceptionally beautiful woman.
How had she come to be where she was? Who had marked her back with those scars?
Criminal any way you thought about it. Which meant there had to be a record of it somewhere. With that information, he might get a more complete picture of the enigmatic head of the Artemis Shelter. Maybe that would help him deal with her, know how to get her to open up and provide whatever information she had about the shooting.
More than anything, Peter wanted to nail those responsible for the killings, but he needed more evidence. So far, he’d been unable to track down the car. The license plate number had revealed that it had been reported stolen a few days earlier. It might not ever be found if it had been turned over to a chop shop. And the descriptions provided by the sole witness weren’t very specific—described a large number of youths in Spanish Harlem.
So, Ms. Turner might be the key to breaking this case and because of that, he needed to know more about her. He went through the various databases available to him, from the local ones to those kept by the Feds. Hours passed. His investigations yielded nothing except a Social Security number and minimal financial information. For anything more detailed, he’d have to ask for help. Escalate the investigation. If she’d been a suspect, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring in others and expose her private life to greater scrutiny. But Samantha Turner wasn’t a suspect. She’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason to sic anyone else on her…yet.
He had a job to do and if he stepped on some toes while doing it, so be it. At least that’s how he felt until he remembered the faint lines on her back and the look she’d given him.
He recognized that almost haunted expression. He’d seen it in the mirror more than once in the months after his wife’s desertion.
So, this time, he would cut Ms. Turner some slack. Respect the pain he’d seen in her eyes. Leave it and her alone.
That’s what Peter told himself as he put his fingers back on the keyboard. That’s what he told himself as he listened to the M.E.’s phone call about the evidence he’d turned in the day before. The blood couldn’t be typed nor could any DNA samples be extracted. Had Peter bagged the evidence properly? Had the materials been close to any chemicals or excessive heat that might have compromised them?
With a tired sigh, Peter answered the M.E. and hung up.
Glancing at his watch, he realized that with little happening in the investigation, he might as well call it a night. Head home to the fourth floor walk-up apartment in downtown Manhattan that wasn’t the house in the suburbs with the neatly manicured lawn he’d always wanted. That thought made him remember the tidily kept courtyard at the Artemis Shelter. Was Samantha the one who’d been busy planting flowers?
She shouldn’t be on his mind. She was just a witness. Not a suspect. Not a victim. At least not on his watch. Whoever had failed her had to deal with that guilt. Not him.
He had enough to handle. He didn’t need any woman in his life, especially one with as many secrets as Samantha Turner.
Which was why he called himself a fool when he drove away from the precinct and headed uptown to ask Ms. Turner a few more questions.
Chapter 4
Samantha was in bed when the call came from her longtime vampire friend, Diego. His youngest charge was missing.
Samantha was weak. Weaker than she should be after multiple feedings, but she couldn’t refuse her friend’s plea for help. Even if it meant going to the downtown vampire club she detested.
The Blood Bank was an odd kind of place, hidden in a dark alleyway and unknown to humans—except those who had a desire to experiment with dark elements. Those people managed, by word of mouth, to spread the news about the club’s existence. As for the demons, they, too, let others know—this was where the normal rules of the human world didn’t apply.
The Blood Bank provided demons with a place to let loose and to feed from the fine stock of blood acquired from a select group of blood banks and butchers. Even, occasionally, from a willing human participant, although the club had strict rules about siring humans on the premises.
The humans, on the other hand, went to the club for many reasons. The naive ones believed the fake vampires put on a good show. Others wanted to believe the vampires were more than actors and got a kick out of possibly mingling with the undead. And finally, there were those true believers who were always ready to search out a chance to embrace the darkness.
A darkness in which she had lived for too long, when what she desired most, like Diego’s poor lost little vampire, was the light. Only all that was light and good was far beyond her reach, Samantha thought, and then for some reason, the good-looking blond detective came to mind. He was as forbidden to her as the light: first for being a human; second for being a man.
As Samantha, Diego and his lover, Esperanza, strolled into the club, the crowd parted before them, as if sensing their inhuman power. All of the booths and tables near the back of the club were filled, but that didn’t deter Diego.
He examined all the spaces and then walked to a booth populated by a group of Goth-looking kids barely out of their teens. He met the gaze of each of them and in a soft voice, which did nothing to diminish the menace behind his words, said, “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”
Two of the three abruptly rose, but one young man lingered, despite the exhortations of his companions that it was time to go. He stared at Diego insolently, the sneer on his face accented by piercings on his upper and lower lips. As he smiled, the sharp points of fangs became visible.
A wannabe, she thought, failing to sense that otherworldly energy that set apart her kind from the many humans within the club.
“Actually, I’d planned to stay a little longer,” the young man said.
Samantha laid a hand on Diego’s arm when he moved toward the Goth. “Please. He’s just young and foolish—”
Diego cut her off abruptly, his normally light blue eyes beginning to glow with the unnatural light of his transformation. “Then he will learn a painful lesson.”
In a blur of movement, Diego sat beside the young man, holding his hand in a viselike grip. Fear appeared in the young man’s eyes as he stared at Diego’s face. Although Diego had yet to morph to his full vamp state, he showed a tiny bit of fang in a display of power.
It worked.
“Please, man. I’m going. I’m gone.”
When Diego released him, the young man scurried away to meet his friends, who had melted into the packed club.
Diego smiled and assumed his human face then motioned for her and Esperanza to join him in the booth.
With a huff, Esperanza said, “I hate this place, Diego.”
Diego stroked her long auburn hair tenderly. “I know, querida. But this is where Meghan is most likely to show up.”
His missing charge, Meghan, being the reason all of them were sitting in a place they generally despised. For vamps like Samantha, Diego and Esperanza, the Blood Bank was a last resort when they needed a real feeding, one not from bags or beef blood. Here, they could occasionally find a human willing to provide them with a quick sip.
Nearly a century earlier, in a club much like this in San Francisco, Samantha had first met Diego and Esperanza. She’d been looking for a vampire she’d suspected of abusing one of the girls in the shelter where she was working as a cook. She’d wanted to make sure he wouldn’t trouble the young woman again, but the vampire had been killed earlier that night in a fight with Diego.
She’d been fearful of Diego’s strength until she’d realized that, like her, he believed in using his power to make things right.
Which was the reason they were all here tonight, Samantha reminded herself as she tried to find the young vampire in the crowd.
Meghan was only twenty-one years old. Forever twenty-one. When they’d first met her two years ago, Meghan had only been a vampire for a few months, which meant she couldn’t tolerate the effects of daylight and missed feedings.
In the vampire world, only the strong survived and strength came with age. If weak vampires survived the usual challenges like sunlight and garlic, they had to keep out of the way of stronger vamps who could, if they wanted, put a quick end to their lives for the slightest of infractions. Crosses and stakes were low on the list of dangers because people just weren’t scared anymore thanks to the proliferation of the undead in the media.
But Meghan, the missing vampire, was pathetically weak. So much so that Diego had taken pity on her when she’d attempted to kill her sire, thinking that would free her vampiric curse. Diego had given her a place to live and offered his human servant as company when Meghan wanted to stay awake during the day like a human. Like Samantha, staying indoors to avoid the strong noon light and slipping outside for a chance at normalcy when the sun was weak.
Meghan had run out on Diego’s servant a few days earlier, and she’d been missing since. This club was the one place Meghan was likely to return to, either to feed or go after her sire once more.
Samantha carefully scoped out the crowd, but there were a number of coeds who matched Meghan’s description—long blond hair, slender, petite and young.
A waitress came by, dressed in a getup that Marilyn Manson would envy—a tight black merry widow and black lace stockings. “May I get you something?”
“A round of blood. Nothing but human,” Diego said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
The waitress rushed to comply, returning to the bar that was kept stocked by payments to health inspectors who turned a blind eye to the unusual libations the club offered.
Samantha glanced back at her two friends as they waited for the server to return.
Diego was as stunning as always, in a charcoal-gray silk Helmut Lang suit and black silk shirt that exposed the pale white skin of his chest. His nutmeg-brown hair was down to his shoulders and straight. His eyes were a marvelous blue—clear and bright like an ice-fed mountain stream. He turned heads, but not just because of his looks. There was something almost regal in his carriage. Probably because before he’d been turned, Diego had been a Spanish lord. A betrayal during the Spanish Inquisition had resulted in his imprisonment and torture. It was deep in the belly of a Spanish prison that he’d been “converted”—although not in the way the priests would have imagined.
As beautiful as Diego was, Esperanza was as plain, but with a good, if sometimes selfish, heart. The one thing Esperanza hated was sharing Diego’s attention with the women he’d saved over the years.
Women like the missing Meghan. Women like Samantha.
Strays and lost souls who often frequented places such as the one they were now visiting.
But unlike other clubs with an obvious theme, the Blood Bank had none. Only walls, ceilings and a bar painted black. The booths, chairs and tables—where they weren’t scarred and exposing whatever material was beneath—were, of course, black.
