Shadow Image Part 2

She shook her head. "I don't have the time."

"Come on. You can get some sustenance, and we can talk."

Shelby took a deep breath. It would be nice to get out of the office and away from the phones for a little while. And maybe, just maybe, she could worm some personal information out of Doc French. "Okay. Just a half hour, though. I have to be back for Judson Tuxbridge."

She stopped briefly at her office a.s.sistant's desk. "Seline, I'm going to grab a bite across the street. If Judson Tuxbridge arrives before I get back, just have him wait."

"Sure, Sheriff." Seline's hooded eyes showed off more of her silver eye shadow than Shelby cared to see. Jason Rody had nicknamed her "Surly Seline the Goth Queen." Shelby had admonished Rody when he used the slur in her presence, but she had to admit that Seline invited that nickname and worse with her garish eye shadow, white pancake makeup, and dark nail polish.

They walked to the diner across the street. It was a favorite with her deputies and the other personnel who worked at the county building. They took a booth, and De Chaux waited while she sat down. Dropped like a rock is more like it, she thought. With an exhaustion that seeped all the way to her knee joints, she plopped onto her seat and listened to the soft whoosh of escaping air that accompanied the quick deflating of the bench's cushion. Even though she figured he outweighed her by a good eighty pounds, he slid noiselessly and effortlessly into the booth, like a tongue and groove joint that was made to fit perfectly together. She ordered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. It wasn't the healthiest breakfast, but she didn't care. She had too many things on her mind to worry about calories, cholesterol, and caffeine, and not even the thought of the redoubtable doctor ordering fresh fruit and yogurt and lowering his gla.s.ses to cast an accusing eye at her greasy platter made her think twice. She was actually surprised when the doctor shook his head in response to the waitress's offer to take his order.

She raised her brows. "You're not going to have anything?"

"I had a bite just before coming to your office."

She tried to don her best professional interview face-interested but not too friendly, relaxed but alert. De Chaux didn't slouch against the padded back of the bench, but sat with a slight forward lean, his elbows balanced on the edge of the table and his leather-encased fingers steepled before his face. He didn't look tired or even uncomfortable, more like an attorney waiting in a courtroom, or like a big cat coiled and lying in ambush for its prey. Weren't the two one and the same?She drew a deep breath and smiled. Okay. Question number one. "Are you a forensic pathologist?"

He nodded.

It wasn't much of an answer, but it gave her the opening she wanted. "You look too young to be a medical examiner, much less a forensic pathologist."

He c.o.c.ked his head. "I'm a little older than I look."

She forged straight ahead. "You can't be that old. So why is a young guy like you working in a little town like Shadow Bay instead the big city?"

"Money isn't important to me."

"So what is?"

He didn't answer right away, and again the hesitation gave her a chance to study him. She couldn't see where his eyes were focused, but she knew it was a spot far beyond her or the diner's window. He lowered his hands, and the fingers of his right hand beat a silent rhythm against the table.

"I guess I want to steer my own ship, even if it's just a rowboat and not an ocean liner."

The movement of his fingers fascinated her, and she wondered why he wore the gloves indoors. "Ah, I see. You don't want somebody at a hospital or clinic telling you what to do."

Something flickered behind the lenses, and she got the impression he was now looking right at her. "Something like that."

She hated dark gla.s.ses. She wanted nothing more than to rip those wire rims right off his face. "Why the dark gla.s.ses? How can you see with those at night?"

"My eyes are sensitive to the light. I don't have a problem seeing at night."

"Is that why you don't have a tan? You stay out of the light?"

Her food arrived, and he merely nodded in response to her question. She felt a little strange eating when he wasn't so much as drinking coffee, but her hunger eclipsed her discomfort. Soon she was relishing not only the food, but the feeling that she was indulging while he was not. They were both silent for a few moments while she tackled her eggs.

She tried something new to get him to open up. "One of my deputies tells me your bike is an antique Peugeot."

"That's right, if you can call 1956 'antique.' It's a hobby of mine. Are you interested in bikes?"

"Not really. I'm from Milwaukee. If it isn't a Harley, it's foreign to me."

"Well, my bike is hardly a Harley. It's just a bread and b.u.t.ter machine-simple on maintenance, light, manageable, and handy around a small town like this."

She chewed on a bacon strip. "Funny. Somehow I would have pictured you on something ... bigger."

She saw a brow peek over the top rim of his gla.s.ses in an acknowledgment of her mistaken expectation. She would indeed have to be careful in making a.s.sumptions about the doctor. She washed down a bite of toast with the last of her coffee. What did it matter anyway? She had already decided last night that she didn't want to get involved with him, and nothing had happened today to change her mind."Where are you from, Doc? You're not a born and bred Michigander any more than I am."

He smiled generously.

She smiled back. If he was going to acknowledge her errors, the least he could do was admit when she was right.

He did. "I was born in Paris, actually, but I've been an American citizen for a long time. I moved here from Eidolon Lake in Michigan's Upper Peninsula."

She laughed. "You don't look or sound anything like a Yooper." She never could keep a straight face when she used the local slang for Michigan's Upper Peninsula-U.P.-natives.

A small smile was his only answer-modest if he thought it was a compliment, diplomatic if he thought it was a subtle insult to his former neighbors.

"What made you move down here?"

A casual shrug told her before he even opened his mouth that he wasn't going to answer her question. "I needed a change. What about you? What brought you here?"

She took a deep breath. "My uncle lived here his whole life. He was sheriff for a long time. When I decided to move here, he suggested I follow in his footsteps, and when I agreed, he campaigned heavily for me. It was because of him and what he had meant to the community that I got elected." She looked down at her empty plate. Both smiles and tears always seemed to come when she thought about Uncle Barry, and she didn't really care to have the doctor see her all teary-eyed. "He pa.s.sed away last year. I miss him a lot."

"I'm sorry."

His soft voice was an invitation to look at his face, but she resisted, glancing at her watch instead. "And I need to get back."

Appointment or no appointment, she was ready to leave. Somehow he had wheedled more information out of her than she had out of him, and the feeling was disquieting.

She paid her bill, and in five minutes they were back at the county building. A pickup truck with "Tuxbridge Construction" painted on the side sat in the parking lot.

"Looks like my appointment's already here," she said. She was glad, for more than one reason. She could hopefully make some progress on the investigation, but more than that, it was a good excuse for cutting short her time with the doctor. Shelby couldn't nail it down, but he made her feel decidedly strange. Uncomfortable. It wasn't dislike, per se. He wasn't arrogant or annoying or in possession of what her grandmother used to call a "cornstarchy air." It was an indefinable kind of discomfort that preyed upon her senses and her nerves like a current of cold air on a warm day, or a brush on the shoulder when no one else was near. It was an awareness that something wasn't normal. "You'll get back to me as soon as you're done with the autopsy? I'll need a copy of the death certificate."

"Of course. It should be later today. Tomorrow morning at the latest." The doctor stopped behind Judson's truck, one muscled arm possessively grasping the tailgate as though the vehicle were his. He was as still as a portion of the landscape, and if the sun was bothering him in any way, he made no show of it, not even bothering to push the lowered gla.s.ses higher on his nose.

Shelby shivered, and she hoped she wasn't coming down with a fever and chills in the middle of a homicide investigation. She turned and headed for the entrance. "Okay. I'll talk to you later, then," she threw over her shoulder. The doctor, still braced against the truck, waved in response with his free hand.

Shelby wasted no time in turning her mind to Judson Tuxbridge. Hopefully he'd be able to provide her with some helpful information, and, if not, an interview with one of Shadow Bay's most handsome and eligible young bachelors couldn't be all bad.

* * * *Ric moved his bike to the edge of the parking lot and waited in the shade of a large ba.s.swood tree. He was pleased with his adjutant. Tuxbridge had returned his phone call before he had returned the sheriff's call, clearly knowing to whom he owed his allegiance. Little actions like that made an adjutant valuable, and a capable Overlord took note of such behavior. It was a good start to the relationship.

Ric wasn't sure if he was pleased with his encounter with the sheriff or not. As tired as he could tell she was, she had been like an inquisitive ferret with every whisker bristling, trying to piece him together and fit him into one of the neat little boxes that cops love so much.

He had suggested the breakfast break as a test. The ideal situation would be for him to simply avoid all contact with Shelby Cort, but it was becoming painfully clear that that option wasn't going to be viable. If communication was going to be inevitable, he needed to test both his control and her perception. For himself, he needed to know to what extent she would rouse his beast, and how much effort he would need to expend to quell it.

As for her, he needed to know how she would react to his carefully dispensed revelations. If she could chew and swallow the tiny bites of truth flavored with falsehood and spiced with fantasy, he'd know how much was safe to reveal to her in the future.

The results had been disturbing. He had watched her as she ate, and while the food itself was unappealing to him, the act of her indulging in a quick but guilty breakfast feast had aroused every one of his senses. Perfume and cosmetics did nothing to excite his kind, but thankfully she was free of such unappetizing cover-ups. She had the beginning of a good tan, rare for a redhead, and a spattering of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose. Blue-green eyes were as probing as any he'd ever seen. He'd watched her full mouth, pleasantly pink even without lipstick, and the muscles in her jaw and neck as she did justice to the meal.

His own blood had been ignited just by the sight and scent of her, but when she started savoring the rich breakfast fare, his craving demanded satisfaction as well. He purposefully let the feeling build, knowing his limits, but putting them on trial nonetheless. He let her hunger feed his until he felt his blood begin to amp into the red zone. When she took her last bite and closed her eyes to relish the final swallow, he closed his eyes as well, thankful for the dark gla.s.ses. He felt everything she was feeling, but as was the way for the Demi Monde, the half-world existence of the Undead, what was true and right and normal for humans was either a perversion or reversal for the Undead. Her satisfaction meant his want, her pleasure his agony.

Still, he had wanted to do it. If he and this female were going to coexist in this town, he needed to know exactly how he would react to her, and she to him. He had survived the encounter. His control, in the end, had prevailed unscathed. Still, future meetings with the sheriff would call for a great deal of prudence. He didn't care to test his control in too many experiments like the one just completed.

Half an hour later, Judson Tuxbridge exited the county building and headed for his truck, his faded work shirt unb.u.t.toned and revealing the white T-shirt underneath. Ric called his adjutant's cell phone number.

"Tuxbridge."

"Tux, it's Ric. I'm on the other side of the parking lot. Meet me at my house."

Ric saw the man turn and spot him. "Lead the way, boss."

Less than ten minutes later Ric pulled into the gravel driveway of his new house, a rambling white frame patchwork of add-ons.

Bay windows adorned both the first and second stories of the original slender structure, but a long screened porch swelled to the side like middle-age spread, and a tall, narrow tower with a widow's walk extended skyward like a strange growth. Tux rocked his truck to a stop behind Ric's bike, and the two went inside.

Tux traced a slow circle around the living room and ran a hand through unruly hair that was long and black. There was almost a look of pain in the puckered brow and curled lip. "I can't believe someone actually bought the Chicken Palace. If you ever want some quality work done on this monstrosity, give me a call."Ric threw his gla.s.ses onto an end table. "Forget the house."

One side of Tux's mouth curled up. "Forget the house, indeed. We have a star in our midst. The famous docteur la mort. When I read the memo announcing your transfer here, I thought it was someone's idea of a joke."

Ric didn't care for being referred to as a joke, especially in his present state of mind. But he carefully kept his face blank. Some reputations, like that of his old friend Alek Dragovich, were crafted over time, built with blocks of ruthlessness and strength, brutality and power. Ric's, however, hadn't been manufactured. His alter ego, Doctor Death, had been a skin he had slipped into very naturally. In France he had been le docteur, and the persona had not only garnered him power, respect, and no small amount of awe, it had given him another veil to hide his true self behind.

Most vamps in France had called him Doctor Death for his experiments long ago in trying to reanimate the dead. A few knew that the nickname also paid homage to Ric's unique vampiric gift-that of the Hand of Death. With his right hand, Ric could either injure or heal anything from plants to humans to vampires. It was a unique gift, and Ric had spent decades honing the power until it had become as sharp as one of his instruments.

He had been bigger than life. He had been Death. It was no wonder even these small town vamps had heard of him.

But this was Shadow Bay, not Paris. This was to be a new beginning. All the t.i.tles, masks, and cloaks had been left far behind on his native soil. Still, he was curious to know what Tux had heard. "What exactly have the rivers of rumor carried about Doctor Death? Surely no jokes, I trust."

Rumors were liquid things. They flowed freely, taking form only briefly whenever they found a mouth to mold them. Tux's features, though, were far from being so yielding. His expression was rock hard, as if he resented the implication that he himself had partic.i.p.ated in shaping the nuggets of half-truth and pa.s.sing them along. "No jokes. I heard that you experimented with reanimating and communicating with the dead. Some say you've actually discovered the secrets of life and death. But I don't understand what one of the most powerful vampires in all of France is doing here. Surely you're not running away?"

Running away. Ric wanted to laugh, but he kept his face impa.s.sive. He would keep the majority of his secrets, but he'd set Tux straight on a few things. "No. Just the opposite, in fact. I spent too many years buried with the dead. To surround myself with life is not running away." The truth was that he hadn't just buried himself with the dead. He had hidden from the world.

"Still, you have to admit that for an ex-Paramount to want to become an Overlord in a place like this ... well, you have to admit it's strange."

"From your point of view, perhaps. Not mine. I just ask one thing. No more references to Doctor Death. Le docteur la mort does not exist here. Understand? Now, to business. We have problems."

Tux quirked an eyebrow. "The sheriff's privy hole murder. But what does that have to do with us?"

His gaze met his adjutant's. "What the sheriff doesn't know is that the body was drained of blood at the time of death."

Tuxbridge was almost tall enough to look Ric eye-to-eye. A height of six feet was rare for any vampire of Ric's age, and he knew that Tux was almost as old as he was.

A touch of defiance stopping just short of challenge lit Tux's green eyes. "So you think it's one of us?"

"Either one of our group or a rogue. I'll need your help to find out who it is."

Ric knew Tux's job wasn't an easy one. An adjutant was often caught in the middle between individual council members and the local Overlord. Most hedged their bets by playing both sides.

"I still don't see what the big deal is. It's a human crime-nothing to do with us. No enforcer's going to come knocking on our door. And besides, we have you to make sure the sheriff doesn't learn the truth."It wasn't what Ric wanted to hear. He needed to both exert his authority and let his second-in-command know that resistance to his position would not be tolerated. At the same time, he needed Tux. A lot. He couldn't afford to alienate his adjutant. Ric allowed the influence of his gaze to snare Tux's mind and hold it-not harshly, but enough for Tux to feel his power.

"I'm surprised at you, my friend. This isn't Paris or London or New Orleans. You know as well as I do that in a small town like this we can't drain our victims to the point of death and litter the countryside with bodies. I'm not worried about one or two indiscretions. What I am concerned with is one of us making a habit of it and bringing too much attention to all of us. Understand?"

Tux's green eyes were steady. "I understand. Your new children may not."

"With your help they will."

"Tell me what you want to do."

Ric released the other man's mind, dropped onto one of the easy chairs, and leaned his head back. He was already tired, and displays of power, even mild ones, were always enervating. "Sit down, my friend."

Tux took the companion easy chair and waited.

"I want a meeting, but not here. As you can see, this place isn't ready yet."

Tux scratched at a spot behind his left ear. "Well, it'll have to be tonight. You and I are the only diurnal vamps in the group. But it'll have to be late. There are some who have night jobs."

"Night jobs? What kind of night jobs are there around here?"

"Ormie's a security guard at the casino just outside Maritime. Come to think of it, Ormie works until four in the morning. Eva's a stripper at a roadhouse called the Diamond Stud out on Firelake Road. It's about ten miles east of town off County Road D.

Appropriate, huh? n.o.body ever forgets where the Diamond Stud is. Cla.s.sy joint. Strip shows, Karaoke, even male exotic dancing one night a week."

The Undead were immune to such mortal ailments as headaches, but even so, Ric could swear his temples were throbbing with pain. It must be the lack of sleep. He slowly tilted his head forward and fastened his gaze again on his adjutant. "Tell Ormie and Eva to leave work early or call in sick if they have to. Two o'clock. Everyone attends."

Tux didn't seem the least bit intimidated by the stare. He c.o.c.ked his head in a kind of sideways nod. "You're the boss."

Ric ignored the irreverence. "Where can we meet?"

"I'm sure Dory won't mind us using his house."

Dory? He didn't recall anyone named "Dory" on the roster of the Cristallia County Council. "Who are you talking about?"

"Darius Kreech. We all call him 'Dory' because of all the doors in his house. His living room, dining room, and kitchen each have six doors. Each downstairs room has at least one outside exit."

Ric rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand. Maybe he had sat too long in the sunshine while waiting for the sheriff to finish with Tux. "Dare I ask why?"

Tuxbridge shrugged in a lazy roll of one shoulder. "Some will tell you it's because Dory is afraid of a fire, but Dory himself will only tell you that he likes collecting doors. His address and directions to his house are in the files I already gave you."

"All right. Two o'clock, then, at Dory's house." Ric leaned forward in his chair and balanced his elbows on his thighs. "You know these people better than anyone. Tell me, do you think a member of this menagerie is our vamp with the poor table manners?" Tux shook his head slowly, the mane of black hair barely disturbed by the motion, but Ric had the feeling that the gesture was more of an admission of uncertainty than a vote of confidence in his brethren. "We've been without an Overlord for several years now. The absence has bred laxity, no doubt, but they know how to act and how to survive. Still, I don't think I could rule out any of the group."

Ric sighed. "What about the rogues?"

I gave you the list of the ones I know about last week. I can't vouch for the accuracy of the addresses, and I don't know how many others are in the area that I'm not aware of."

"Of the ones on your list, are you acquainted with any?"

"A couple."