Darkyn - Private Demon Part 25

He had shouted at her, too. Not as he had in the dream, but in a mixture of French and English. Loud, harsh, furious words. Things about her life and her work that were true. Mean, but true. She had felt the weight of his hand the whole way home.

The gardenias. They belonged to him. She brought her hand up to her face. She could smell him on her skin.

How many times had she woken up, smelling him in her room, on her body?

Jema got up slowly, carefully. The sore, battered feeling wasn't a product of her imagination on this occasion; under her nightgown she was covered with bruises. She went into the bathroom and braced herself as she looked in the mirror.

They'd hit her in the face more than once, the men who had jumped her outside the museum, and the evidence was all over her face: split lip, black eye, reddened nose. A graze on her cheek from when she'd been thrown to the ground.

Being mugged didn't feel the way it looked on TV or in the movies. It had been real, excruciating pain, and the worst was not being able to stop it or the men beating her.

Jema remembered praying when the one of them dragged her back into the alley. She had prayed because she had known she was going to die there.

And here she was, alive. Saved from being murdered by a man who didn't exist.

What do I do now, little cat? How can I leave you now, even when I know I must? Who will be there the next time someone tries to harm you?

She went over and knelt before the toilet, lifting the seat, holding back her hair. Throwing up seemed like a privilege.

After she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she went back out into her room. Her alarm clock had not gone off with the usual buzz, and she checked it. Someone had turned it off. She switched on the clock radio and tuned it to a local all-news station.

The announcer confirmed everything she remembered. Her attackers were the top story of the morning.

"The three youths, identified as Gary O'Donnell, Lawrence Kunde, and Roland Riegler, were found stabbed to death in the parking lot behind the Shaw Museum. Police are investigating other members of the 'Bones' white supremacist gang, who they believe may have information about last night's triple murder. In sports, the Bears suffered a setback when..."

She went to the window and stepped out onto the balcony. New snowfall enfolded Shaw House in white; the naked trees were dressed in gla.s.sy icicles. She could smell gardenias-Thierry-all over herself, on her skin, in her hair.

He's real. Everything we did together was real.

Jema thought of one dream she'd had as a little girl, when she saw herself running out of Shaw House and willing herself to fly away. She didn't flap her arms and take off, as a bird did, but instead she had known how to make her body lighter than air. In the dream, she had floated up, gently, slowly, a leaf floating on a river of warm air. It had felt so real to her that the next day she had walked out to stand on the lawn and tried to do the same thing consciously.

Her feet had stayed on the ground, and as every child must, she understood that what happened in her sleep was not real, could never be real.

Where was the ground now? She looked over the edge. If she dared step out, would she fall to her death? Or would she float, a brittle leaf, curling in on herself, able to fly? Or would she be too afraid?

"Jema?"

She turned and walked back into the room. Daniel Bradford was there, his medical case in hand. He looked upset and relieved.

"You should be in bed." He drew back the quilt for her.

Jema climbed in, too astounded by what she was thinking and feeling to protest. Daniel examined her thoroughly and changed the bandage on her head before he spoke again.

"Do you remember what happened to you last night?"

She folded her hands. "Some men came after me when I left work. They were going to kill me. Then I was here." She gazed up at him, willing him to explain what had happened in the time between the events.

"You have a mild concussion and some sc.r.a.pes and bruises, but I think with a few days of bedrest you'll be as good as new. I keep saying that, don't I?" He grimaced and prepared a syringe. "You can imagine the state your mother is in."

Yes, she could. "She knows I'm all right?"

He nodded. "I think it would help if you stayed close to home for a bit. I know your work is important, but Meryl is terrified by what happened to you." He administered the injection. "I also think it would be a good idea if you wouldn't mention your friend or have any contact with him for the present."

"My friend."

"The man who drove you home from the museum last night." He misread her expression. "Your love life is your business, but it would just add too much strain to the situation. Once Meryl calms down, you can tell her about him.

Invite him over for a meal, if you think he can stand the interrogation over dessert." He packed up his case and checked his watch. "If you feel up to coming down for breakfast, I know it would do great things for your mother's ulcer."

Jema didn't notice Daniel leaving her room. She felt disconnected from everything around her; breakfast and her mother were a million miles away. She pressed a hand to her mouth as it flooded over her. The only way Daniel could have known about Thierry was if he had seen him driving her home last night. The last fear that she was hallucinating or losing her mind disappeared, and she was left standing in a world where the man of her dreams existed.

Thierry was real.

"Oh, my G.o.d." There was so much she had to do. So much she had to know. Where he was, what he was doing, how he had done this thing, come into her dreams, shared them with her. She would know him if she were blindfolded, caught in the middle of a crowd of strangers, but she didn't know his address or phone number. She didn't know where he worked, if he lived in the city or at the lakefront.

Was what he had told her in the dreams true as well? Was he something other than a human being? Wouldn't he have to be, to do the things that he had done?

Jema's heart turned over in her chest. She had to get out of here. She had to find him, today, immediately, before another hour pa.s.sed. She had to touch him and kiss him and slap him silly for what he'd done to her, and then throw herself in his arms and thank him for her life.

Thierry had saved her.

It took a little time and a lot of makeup to conceal the bruises and cuts on her face. When she went downstairs, Jema considered bypa.s.sing Meryl and going directly to her car. It would save precious time she could spend looking for her golden-eyed demon. She couldn't waste an ounce of energy on guilt or pandering to her mother's fears. As she walked past the dining room, she hesitated. The attack last night had been serious. The police were going to want a statement on what had happened. Jema knew she hadn't talked to them last night. She couldn't leave her mother to deal with them alone; Meryl would end up having a real heart attack from the hysterics.

Jema walked in and found her mother sitting by herself at the table. "I have to talk to you," she said, and saw her mother jerk in her chair.

"You startled me." Meryl's face had a gray tinge, and she pressed a hand under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I told Daniel to keep you in bed."

"I'm fine. I have to go in to work. I'll call the police from my office and have them come by the museum to take my statement." She had no idea of how to tell her mother about Thierry. "There are other things that can't wait-"

"Sit down for a minute." Her mother gestured to the chair beside her. "Please. There's something I have to tell you."

Jema shook her head. "When I get home tonight-"

"You can't go to the museum. If they find out... with the police involved..." Tears welled up in Meryl's eyes. "You have to help me. We'll be ruined."

She had never seen her mother cry, Jema realized as she went and sat beside her. "Tell me."

"I begged him not to." Meryl seized Jema's hand and squeezed it tightly. "I told him over and over it was too dangerous. When the government took over the dig and seized everything, James was furious. I told him we could negotiate with the ministry, but he wouldn't hear of it. In his eyes the Homage belonged to him, and he wasn't leaving without it. When he went back to camp I knew what I had to do. I had to destroy the cave before he took the Homage out of it."

Jema took in a sharp breath. "Mother."

"Don't look at me like that." She pushed Jema's hand away. "I was young and foolish and in love. I had to save him. I don't know what went wrong. I set the charges, but one went off too soon, before I could get out of the cave.

The roof collapsed on top of me, and the weight of the rubble broke my back. You were born a few minutes after your father dug me out."

Jema tried to feel angry, but the misery on her mother's face was too transparent. "He must have been very upset with you."

"Not enough to stop him from taking the Homage. He found it in the rubble, and used the emergency flight that brought me back to America as the way to smuggle it out of the country." Meryl took a trembling sip of her water. "He hid it in something, but he never told me what it was. Then he went back, and he was killed." Her mother's tone changed. "I've been trying to find the Homage ever since."

"What else did my father steal?" Jema asked quietly.

"Nothing. It was only that one time. But that was enough. If it ever became known that your father was a thief, it would destroy our reputation, our standing in the community. Everything we've done, everything we've given to the world would automatically be held suspect. You don't know how I've agonized over it. How much I wanted to tell you."

Jema thought of all the times Meryl had spoken of her father, when she could have told her this story. Why hadn't she? "Instead you took things from the museum to... what? Search them?"

"It was only a crate now and then. The things that hadn't been checked. There are so many down in storage, I didn't think they'd be missed." Her mother's voice grew brittle. "I only borrowed them long enough to examine them.

I had everything returned when I was finished with it. I didn't steal anything from the collection." "What were you going to do with the Homage if you found it?" Jema asked. "Destroy it?"

"No, of course not. I was going to return it to the Greek government-anonymously-and hope that would be the end of it." Her mother dried her face with her linen napkin. "No one can know about this, Jema. If you tell the police, it'll make headlines. Your father's name would be ruined. The Greek government is very vindictive; they've always wanted to take back the Shaw collection. They'd demand rest.i.tution or bring charges against us. It could close the museum for good."

Her mother's revelations pushed aside the need to find Thierry. For the moment, dealing with Meryl and the Homage would have to take priority-only for the moment. "I'd better go. I'll call you from work when I know something, Mother."

"Know what? What are you going to do?" Meryl asked, looking tearful again. "You won't tell the police?"

"No." Jema sighed. "I'm going to the museum to find this thing."

Chapter 18.

Things only went from bad to worse when Jema arrived at the museum.

"Detective Newberry." Jema stopped in the hall leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where the detective was leaning against one wall and reading over some handwritten notes.

"Morning, Miss Shaw." Stephen Newberry straightened and pocketed the notepad. "You've heard about the murders outside the museum last night?"

"I... yes, I did." Jema didn't know what to tell him. Her mother's revelations had her feeling as if she had to hide everything from the police. Then there was Thierry-had he killed those men, protecting her? Jema could remember seeing a large, dark shadow rushing at the men just before one of them had dragged her into the alley. If Thierry had killed them, he might be charged with murder. Aware the detective was staring at her, she said, "Sorry, I haven't had my coffee yet. Have you been a.s.signed to this case?"

"The three guys who were killed were my primary suspects in a couple of a.s.saults and murders, including the Fong case." Newberry scratched the back of his head. "The weird thing is, we found more of those hairs on the bodies. I was hoping your expert might have turned up something on them."

That was why he was here-not to question her, but to consult with her.

"Come down to my office," she said, keeping her expression controlled. "I'll call Dr. Tucker right now and see if she's made any progress."

Sophie Tucker was happy to hear from Jema. "I tried to fax this report to you last night, but for some reason my machine didn't want to talk to your machine. The hair was identified by a faunal expert from Rio. It's from a hybrid type of llama in Argentina."

"A llama. Don't we have them here in the U.S.?"

"Not this kind. They're a hybrid, farmed for their wool-and get this. The Argentineans use it primarily to make theatrical masks." Sophie chuckled. "Just when you think you've heard everything, right?"

The men who had attacked her last night had been wearing masks. Masks that made them look like animals-with real hair, the same color as the hair that had been found on the body of the young Asian man.

Pull yourself together. Jema managed to thank her and ask her to send the report over as soon as possible, and then relayed the information to Newberry.

He was perplexed by Dr. Tucker's identification. "If they were wearing masks last night, who took them off the bodies? And how did they get from Argentina to Chicago?"

"I wish I could tell you. You might check with some of the local costume shops; they might be importing them,"

Jema suggested. If she had to keep up this act much longer, she was going to having shrieking hysterics. "Maybe they were wearing their Halloween costumes a little early."

He nodded, and then peered at her. "That's one heck of a black eye you have under all that concealer."

"This?" Jema resisted the urge to cover her face with one hand. "I was hurrying and tripped and fell down the stairs at home. I sort of landed on my face. Now everyone thinks my nice little old mother, who's in a wheelchair, is knocking me around."

"People watch too much Lifetime." Newberry chuckled as he stood up and shook her hand. "Thanks for all your help on this, Miss Shaw."

Jema thought of what he had said earlier. "Detective, just out of curiosity, what other cases do you have that are linked to these three men who were killed last night?"

"Well, the Fong murder that we worked together, a couple of beatings at a hip-hop club on the east side, and the Lopez case." His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Luisa Lopez worked here at the museum, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did." Jema froze. "How is her case connected?" "Only by the fiber evidence. The doctors recovered some of that llama hair from her." Newberry looked grim. "They found it lodged under her fingernails."

Cyprien hated being separated from Alexandra during the daylight hours. Although she tolerated the sunlight far better than he and the other Kyn did, he never felt safe letting her go out during the day. Now, with the knowledge that someone was actively trying to kill her, or him, or both of them, he paced and brooded every moment she was gone.

She is fine. She is lying dead in the gutter. She is safe. She is chained in a torture chamber.

He cursed himself for not accompanying her. Alex had insisted on going alone; she felt her brother would respond better to her request for a blood sample if he were not present. Jaus had sent Falco to drive her, so there was really no need to worry. The bargain Cyprien had made with Tremayne had lifted John Keller's death sentence.

"I am quite shocked that you dare call my attention to this," Tremayne had said when Michael had called Ireland to make his offer. "I could now demand it from you without sparing the priest."

"Such is your right, my lord," Cyprien said. "However, it is within my power to make it disappear before your men arrive to take possession. Rather like John Keller."

The silence that followed was brief. "You are annoying me, Michael."

One did not annoy Richard Tremayne and expect to live long afterward, but Michael thought it worth the risk. "It must feel the same as having one's authority tested, my lord. As you did mine by sending out the order to kill Keller."

Richard laughed. "So I did. Very well, Michael. I will permit Father Keller to live, so long as he does not interfere in Kyn business or return to the good Brothers. Should he do so, our bargain ends, as does his life."

Cyprien still had his own reservations about allowing Alexandra's brother to live, but they were not as important as preserving his relationship with his sygkenis. If it became clear that he'd been wrong about Keller, he could use Falco to make the resolution swift and anonymous.

Cyprien waited until an hour had pa.s.sed, and he no longer wanted to listen to his voice of reason. This is taking too long. He went to the window to look down at the circular drive in front of the house. If Alexandra did not return in ten minutes, he would go out and find her.

"An a.s.sa.s.sin would appreciate this," Jaus said, directly behind him. "Your back to an open door, your mind in another place."

Michael turned his head. "I trust you to at least keep the a.s.sa.s.sins out of the house." He looked at the file Jaus was holding. "You have identified him?"

"David Montague," Jaus said. "A former contract killer. He stopped working for hire some months ago, evidently to indulge his personal predilections. My hunters found traces of six private kills at his residence, but no evidence as to why he tried to murder Jema Shaw or you. I had them leave the body in the house. It is not over, however."

Cyprien listened as Jaus told him about the attack on Jema Shaw at the museum, and how Thierry Durand had killed the three men involved.

"Thierry saved Miss Shaw?" It could not be a coincidence. "How did he come to be there?"