Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 189

"Shh." She hadn't wanted to hear his fears. Had only wanted to be rea.s.sured by his strength.

He hadn't disappointed. With his hands firmly splayed over her back, his legs had pressed against hers, and silently, still kissing her, he began walking forward, strong thighs pus.h.i.+ng against hers and forcing her backward. They'd tugged at each other's clothes, yanking them off, breathing hard, as he guided her through an open doorway and into a bedroom painted a hideous color of blue. Her calves encountered something hard and Jay pulled her down so that they tumbled together onto a small cot with a sleeping bag and single pillow.

She hadn't cared.

She'd only wanted to lose herself in him.

Their lovemaking had been fast and anxious, lips touching and tasting hungrily, fingers skimming hot, fevered skin, desire fueled by anxiety.

Release had come quickly.

They'd collapsed together, spent, sweating, their heartbeats pounding in tandem on the skinny little cot.

Kristi had hated that she needed to lie. Had put it off and put it off, not wanting the afternoon with Jay to end.

"This is ridiculous," she said, pus.h.i.+ng her hair out of her face and staring into his slumberous amber eyes.

He laughed. "And I was going to say it was magical...wondrous...incredible...and-"

"And you're full of it, McKnight." Then she kissed him and rolled off the cot to pull on her clothes.

He'd been pretty d.a.m.ned adamant about going to the police again, and she'd had to talk fast and hard to convince him to wait. She hadn't been completely truthful, at least as far as her plans were concerned. She hadn't been able to be.

She'd waited until he was distracted with grading papers and watching the computer screens that showed the porch and interior of her apartment, compliments of his surveillance cameras. She pretended to be absorbed as well, double-checking the chat rooms, though it was far too early for any of her newfound Internet "friends" to appear. Then while Jay was in his study, she retrieved the chain with the vial of what she presumed was Tara At.w.a.ter's blood. Tonight, at the play, she planned to wear the weird necklace. See what kind of reactions she got.

Jay had already tried to lift a latent fingerprint from the tiny vial, but the gla.s.s had been clean, so Kristi wasn't disturbing any evidence-as long as the vial filled with the dark red liquid was intact.

It was slightly horrific, but so what?

So was the camera in her apartment.

So was being followed by a dark van.

If she wanted to break into the inner circle of this cult, she'd better work fast.

The vial of blood had been a G.o.dsend.

Or the work of the devil.

So she'd escaped without Jay noticing she'd taken the vial and here she was, driving toward campus, checking her rearview mirror for looming dark vans. Had it been navy blue? Black? Charcoal gray? She didn't know. She hadn't gotten a clear view of the plates, but had thought they weren't from out of state. The windows had seemed tinted but she didn't know the make. Maybe a Ford. Or a Chevy. Something domestic.

So much for her incredible powers of observation.

The defroster in her Honda had decided to malfunction and was giving her fits. She had to keep the window down in order to see through her winds.h.i.+eld to the wet, s.h.i.+ny streets. It was already dark with clouds completely blocking the rapidly setting sun, rain drizzling from the sky, and night coming fast.

Thankfully, traffic was thin and spa.r.s.e on a Sunday evening and there was a chill in the air that reminded her that it was the dead of winter.

Jay had left for his meeting as Kristi headed to Father Mathias's morality play, yet another rendition of Everyman Everyman, though Jay had made a last protest.

"I don't like you going to the play alone," he'd said seriously as she was getting ready to leave. "I can cancel with Hollister. She just wants to discuss how the cla.s.s is coming along, I think. Compare it to how Dr. Monroe handled it. But it's not a big deal, I can reschedule."

"I don't think it would be good if we're seen together."

"Someone already has," he remarked. "And took a video."

"Don't remind me." She'd grimaced. "Besides, Hollister is head of your department."

"I don't have to see her today. Besides, I've talked with Dr. Monroe a couple of times since I took over and I've got her notes to work with. I'm pretty much sticking to her curriculum. If she comes back next term, she'll be good to go."

"Is she returning?" Kristi asked.

"Don't know. Depends on the relocation of her mother. She's having trouble finding the right place for her."

"So you don't have any idea if you're going to be teaching next term?"

"Not yet. Though maybe you could convince me to take the job if it's offered."

He waggled his brows lasciviously and she laughed as she headed out.

It was dark now, her headlights catching all the raindrops falling in silver streaks to the pavement. She was halfway to All Saints when her cell phone rang. She expected it to be Jay, once again warning her to be careful.

"h.e.l.lo?" she said, turning into the parking lot of her apartment building.

"Kristi Bentz?" a deep voice asked as she pulled into a spot a few over from hers because some jerk had taken hers with his jacked-up pickup and oversized tires. Before she could respond, he said, "This is Dr. Grotto. First, I want to apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I did get your message." His voice was so smooth, the same tenor as when he taught, and in her mind's eye she saw him, the tall man with black hair and dark eyes, his strong jaw dark with beard shadow. She forgot being angry that she had to park a few steps further from the stairs. "You mentioned you'd like a meeting and now my schedule has cleared a bit. So how about tomorrow afternoon? Say...four? I have some time then."

Kristi did some quick mental calculations. She was scheduled to work the dinner s.h.i.+ft, but she figured she could find someone to cover an extra hour for her. She wasn't going to blow this. "Sure," she said lightly, as if she had nothing more to ask him about than a particularly tough a.s.signment. She thought about the dark van and wondered if Grotto might have been the driver. "I'll be at your office at four."

"I'll see you then."

He clicked off as Kristi cut the Honda's engine. She couldn't wait to talk face-to-face with Grotto; after all he was the last person thought to have seen Dionne Harmon alive.

After double-checking the parking lot to make certain no one was lurking between the cars or behind the hedge of crepe myrtle, she nervously headed into her unit. As far as she could tell everything was just as they'd left it. She didn't think anyone had been inside.

She felt the urge to stick her tongue out at Jay's camera, or do a little strip tease for him as a joke, but refrained. Just in case there was another camera they hadn't found. All she managed was a wink at the camera over the sink.

Houdini came out from his hiding spot under the bed. "I wondered when you'd show your face again," she said. "Did that big dog scare you? Trust me, Bruno wouldn't hurt a flea." She slid a hand over the cat's back and he quivered and tried to slink away from her touch. He wasn't as quick to disappear, however, so she poured cat food into his bowl and watched with some amus.e.m.e.nt as he sniffed disdainfully at it. "Hey, don't forget your roots," she said to him. "Beggars can't be choosers."

The cat stared at her as if she were a complete moron before hopping onto the counter and slipping through the open window. "No good deed goes unpunished," she called after him, then, in the bathroom, did a quick change into black pants and turtleneck. She threw on a jacket and grabbed her purse, complete with her cell phone and canister of mace, and was out the door.

The weather had let up a bit, though her defroster was still making visibility difficult. She had to use her hand to clear a spot in the winds.h.i.+eld, but she saw no dark, malicious van idling in the alleys. Still, she was on alert as she took her car the short distance to campus, another means to make it appear that she wasn't home tonight, though "inviting" the pervert into her home bothered her a little.

What little daylight there was quickly faded as Kristi parked behind Wagner House. The museum was set to close in ten minutes, but she wanted to check the place one more time.

The gate was unlocked and the front door swung open without a creak. Kristi stepped inside, where a gas fire was burning cheerily. Lights, with their colored Tiffany-style shades, glowed like jewels. Victorian settees, carved mahogany tables and club chairs were cl.u.s.tered in groupings, the dining table set with crystal and silver, as if a dinner party were planned for later in the evening.

Three fiftyish women were oohing and aahing over the furniture and knickknacks while a younger couple with a baby who was strapped to the father in some kind of sling were strolling through the lower rooms.

"h.e.l.lo." A slim woman, with an easy smile and streaked hair that swung to her chin, greeted Kristi. She was wearing a long skirt, boots, and a cowl-necked sweater. Her name tag read: Marilyn Katcher. "I'm Marilyn, the docent, and I was about to give a little tour of the house before we close. Would you like to join the others?"

Kristi looked around at all the expectant faces. "That would be great."

After that, she followed along and listened as the docent, with more enthusiasm than Kristi would have believed possible, walked the small group through the lower floors, explaining the history of the family, making a big deal of old Ludwig Wagner and his heirs, telling how he'd donated this portion of his vast holdings around the Baton Rouge area to the church for the express purpose of starting a college. She led the way upward to the bedrooms, explaining about the children who had resided within and how the current Ludwig descendants had spent much of their own fortunes restoring the house to the way it had been when Ludwig and his children, including his wheelchair-bound daughter, had lived here. Some of the pieces were authentic, others used to add to the feel of the home, not all necessarily period-true.

Once they were downstairs again Mrs. Katcher checked her watch and attempted to usher everyone out. But Kristi hung back and asked about the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"It was used by the staff, originally, of course, and I think it had some connecting tunnel or other way to access the carriage house, which is right next door and now houses the drama department. There was also egress to the stables and barns, but all of those pa.s.sageways were deemed unsafe years ago, condemned by the parish, so they've been sealed. Today the bas.e.m.e.nt is used for storage." She held open the front door. "To be honest, I've never set foot downstairs. I don't think anyone ever goes down there."

Father Mathias does, Kristi thought. The priest and Georgia Clovis already knew Kristi had seen him appear through the bas.e.m.e.nt door, and the fact that there were tunnels, condemned or not, beneath the building intrigued her. What if they still existed? What if Marnie Gage had gone downstairs and used them? But why? Kristi thought. The priest and Georgia Clovis already knew Kristi had seen him appear through the bas.e.m.e.nt door, and the fact that there were tunnels, condemned or not, beneath the building intrigued her. What if they still existed? What if Marnie Gage had gone downstairs and used them? But why?

Marilyn Katcher was nothing if not on a schedule. She managed to herd everyone outside and lock the gate behind them at five-thirty on the dot.

The wind had kicked up as they headed into the dark that had descended while they were inside. A s.h.i.+mmer of rain flashed by Kristi, and vapor lights glowed an eerie blue as she made her way to the student union. In the cafeteria-style restaurant she looked for some of the familiar faces in her English block of cla.s.ses, but she didn't see Trudie, Grace, Zena, or Ariel. She remembered then that Zena had said something about being cast in Father Mathias's morality play.

Maybe she'd see the girl on stage.

She drank a decaf cappuccino and tried to call Lucretia again. After all, her ex-roommate was the one who'd originally mentioned the "cult" before her abrupt turnabout. But, as with everyone these days, it seemed her call was sent directly to voice mail.

Kristi didn't leave a message. Lucretia was avoiding her.

Powering down her phone, Kristi headed toward the auditorium. If she got there a little early, maybe she could poke around a bit. All of the missing girls had attended Father Mathias's morality plays, so there had to be a connection between them and the vampire cult, right?

It was as good a place to find answers as anywhere else.

Deep in her underground spa, standing naked in front of a tall mirror, Elizabeth surveyed herself carefully.

She was irritated.

Antsy.

Obviously in need of more.

More what? her mind taunted, for she disdained saying that she needed blood, the blood of others. her mind taunted, for she disdained saying that she needed blood, the blood of others.

It made her feel weak, or like an addict, and that wasn't the case at all. She was strong. Powerful. Vital. But, truth to tell, she did crave more....

She wanted to feel that rush of rejuvenation again. But it was not to be, for the mirror highlighted every flaw, even the faintest. Located in the same area as her bath, it was lit by a few soft lights on a dimmer switch, which she could ramp up should she need to examine any imperfection in her skin.

On a purely intellectual level, she couldn't believe that blood of younger women would actually r.e.t.a.r.d aging or revitalize her skin, but then again, hadn't she noticed the changes to her own body?

With a critical eye, she surveyed herself in the mirror, searching for the telltale signs of age: wrinkles around her lips; crinkling at the corners of her eyes; the beginning of a crease at the base of her neck; the sagging of her abdomen despite a regimen of crunches, sit-ups, weight lifting, and cardio workouts. There was a thin line between being fit and slim and just plain skinny. But none of her bones showed where they shouldn't. Her musculature was perfect and her skin still creamy and taut, her nipples tight and dark. No strands of gray dared shoot through her l.u.s.trous black hair.

Yet.

But age, she knew, was a relentless enemy and though she'd used all kinds of creams along with her private regimen, she hadn't gone so far as to seriously consider liposuction or dermabrasion or a laser peel.

For the moment, she'd refrained from doing anything so radical.

She hadn't needed to.

Because her remedy was working. Now, studying her flawless, age-spot-free skin minutely, she found it near perfect. Youthful. Vanity caused her to smile. She hadn't been born beautiful; in fact, she remembered her mother saying she'd been an "ugly" baby, her head misshapen, her eyes too large, her hair patchy, her body frail. But she'd blossomed from an awkward tot and gawky girl into a teenager who had made boys and men twist their stupid necks as she'd strolled by.

It was that feeling, that rush from the power of her beauty, that she refused to relinquish. And so she'd done her research and realized despite her genes, and the help of products, age would try to destroy her. Her eyes would sag and grow puffy and dark, her skin would lose its elasticity, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s would droop, and flabby little pockets would try to appear.

Except she had a way to fight back.

Her secret method, she thought, twisting in the mirror and looking over her shoulder at her reflection. Her b.u.t.tocks were still tight and firm, her waist small. And, from the pictures she'd seen, she looked amazingly like her stunning namesake. Actually, she decided with a tilt of her head, she was even more beautiful.

She'd known about her ancestor, Elizabeth of Bathory, for as long as she could remember and had been fascinated with the countess, but only recently, when she'd realized that her age was beginning to show, had she a.s.sumed Elizabeth's name and regimen.

The story was, loosely, that Elizabeth, obviously a bit of a nutcase, had worried about losing her legendary beauty. Also, the countess enjoyed torturing and tormenting others, and one day, slapped a servant so hard that the maiden's blood spilled onto her arm. Elizabeth had been even more outraged and raving until she noticed that the area of her skin the blood had stained appeared more youthful and beautiful than the surrounding flesh. From that day forward, Elizabeth found ways of ever more increasing cruelty to drain the blood of others for her own personal use.

Now, obviously, the woman had been deranged. Mental case with a capital M. s.a.d.i.s.t to the nth degree.

All that royal inbreeding.

No wonder.

Of course many of the stories or legends about the "blood countess" hadn't been proven, including the bathing in blood. That she had committed atrocities on dozens of young girls was not in dispute, however, and she was eventually tried and convicted of murder and sent to live walled into her castle. Those who had a.s.sisted her weren't so lucky.

But it was the legend, the folklore surrounding the baths drawn from the blood of peasant girls and her eventual n.o.bility that intrigued this new Elizabeth.

Even if the legends had been embellished with the pa.s.sing of decades, and despite the fact that some of the more bizarre cruelties ascribed to Elizabeth had no foundation in historical fact, the theory about the blood of younger women wasn't just intriguing, it seemed to have merit.

Hadn't she, herself, proven its validity?

Now, staring into the mirror, Elizabeth arched her neck, surveying every inch of her body as she slowly rotated in the light.

Hadn't the first traces of cottage-cheese-like b.u.mps beneath the skin of her thighs, the barest breath of cellulite, disappeared with her first blood-infused baths? And that little suggestion of spider web veins, near the back of her right knee? Hadn't they faded after the first bath?

Of course they had. Now, the back of her knee was silken and smooth, not even the tiniest line of her veins visible.

She was so convinced of the rejuvenation of her skin, the restorative powers of the blood, she'd almost agreed to dip into a pool injected with some of the blood of Vlad's lessers.

But no!

She watched her reflection visibly cringe at the thought. It was one thing to cover her body in the blood of smart, young girls. Elizabeth didn't kid herself into thinking they were "virgins" or "pure" or any of that rot, but at least they hadn't pole danced for ogling, drooling, fat-a.s.sed men. Or, so she told herself. What, actually, did she know of those she'd helped Vlad choose?

Just that they were intelligent, seeking higher education. Something that escaped Vlad.

She grimaced.

Vlad.

Or so he insisted on being called, though, of course she knew his true ident.i.ty.