The Last Vampire Part 17

"Please tell me what happened."

Miriam's eyes met hers. Sarah forced herself not to look away, but Miriam was certainly furious. "In good time," she said.

"I wish you could be at peace."

"I cannot be at peace."

Miriam's hand came into hers. Her eyes became like penetrating needles. "You remember I have spoken of Martin Soule," she said slowly, evaluating Sarah, trying to look into her mind.

"He inspired Baroness Orczy. He was the real Scarlet Pimpernel."

Quick as a flash, Miriam's iron fingers were crus.h.i.+ng Sarah's wrist. "You're not sad," she snarled.

"I'm scared! What's happening?"

"I ought to put you back in the attic with the others, you ungrateful b.i.t.c.h! b.i.t.c.h!"

"Miriam?"

Miriam released her wrist, tossing it away from her with a contemptuous gesture.

"Miriam, please tell me what's wrong!"

"My French has become archaic," she snapped. "I want a teacher standing before me at ten tomorrow morning. Ten exactly."

"Yes,"Sarah said, aware that her voice was shaking badly,"a teacher at ten."

There was a silence, during which the jet shuddered slightly. "I needed you, Sarah, and you weren't there for me."

Sarah closed her eyes. Tears swam out beneath the lids.

"You weep for me?"

Sarah nodded. "You're the love of my life."

"And yet you ignore the emergency number. You love me, but you want me dead, Sarah. That's the truth of it."

"I don't want you dead."

"You've hated me ever since I gave you my blood." Her lips curled. "The gift of eternal life!"

"You ought to have asked me."

"You're an idiot, Sarah." Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. "But I do enjoy you. You're such a scientist!"

"You're a murderer, Miriam."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"And I love you, too."

Miriam said, "The vodka's warm."

Sarah got up like a robot and moved down the aisle. The faces of the other pa.s.sengers seemed vividly alive, their cheeks rich with blood. Sarah knew that this was an early sign of her own hunger. In a week, she would need to feed again. She'd try to stave it off, as she always did, with the blood she bought from the little blood bank on Thirtieth Street.

"I need a colder bottle," she said to the steward.

"Of course, mademoiselle." He drew a new one out of the refrigeration unit in his cart, put the old one in.

She took it back to their seats and poured Miriam another drink, then sat down. "I want to help you," she said.

"You're dangerously incompetent."

"I'm the best you've got!"

"For the while," Miriam said, her voice almost indifferent, as if the subject was no more than dull.

A shock pa.s.sed through Sarah. "If you'd tell me what I've done - "

"I called you and called you."

"You've told me that fifty times! But you have to tell me what happened. Why did you need me? Why are we running like this? Miriam, for the love of G.o.d, what's happening?"

The pitch of the engines changed, followed by the angle of approach. "Finally," Miriam said, "you agree that you've proved yourself hopelessly incompetent."

Sarah nodded.

"So you agree that I can't take the risk of relying on you."

Sarah nodded again, and this time tears sprayed her breast. "Miriam, no matter what you decide -"

"It's decided."

"At a time like this, you need me. Whatever it is, I can help. I can correct my mistakes and do better."

"Yes, indeed."

"You're being chased. We've got to get you out of the house. Hide you."

"Do we?"

The plane roared, made a steep turn into its final approach. "It's all right," Sarah said automatically, "everything's fine."

The steward reminded them to place their seat backs upright and fasten their seat belts. He came past and collected the vodka. "Will Madame be wanting a wheelchair?" he asked.

"Mademoiselle will not," Miriam said.

A short time later, the plane was drawing up to the gate. The moment it stopped, Sarah stepped into the aisle in order to prevent any pa.s.sengers behind them from pus.h.i.+ng past Miriam or impeding her way.

As far as the world knew, two resplendently beautiful young women stepped off the plane, one discreetly attentive to her companion, who walked with her cool gray eyes fixed to the middle distance, emeralds and gold glowing around her neck, a wide-brimmed Philippe Model hat on her head. The other girl might have been a friend, slightly less wealthy, or even an indulged secretary or servant. Indulged, because she was so well kept herself, with her superbly tailored green peau de soie peau de soie suit and her fas.h.i.+onably tousled hair. suit and her fas.h.i.+onably tousled hair.

They pa.s.sed through customs with the easy indifference of people so powerful that such things did not matter to them. The officers were quick, discreet. "Welcome home, Dr. Roberts; welcome back, Miss Patton."

When they appeared in the Concorde Lounge, there was a discreet spatter of applause. Miriam slowed, then stopped, then turned. She raised a gloved hand, smiled. n.o.body who did not know the truth could possibly have imagined, not for an instant, that she was anything but a girl - a girl with wise eyes, but still a girl.

She stepped forward into the richly dressed crowd.

They surrounded her, kissing her cheeks, touching her as children do a mother they have not seen in a very long time. In each pair of eyes was the same regard, the same awe. Sarah watched this with the dispa.s.sion of a captive. Most of them probably thought of her only as the sparkling mistress of the most exclusive club in all of the Americas, a secret, exquisite club, a place where the most powerful of people could express their true selves without shame or restraint, where there were no restrictions . . . once you had pa.s.sed the door. Some few knew part of the truth, the whispered reality of Miriam.

Only Leonore Patton was entirely certain of the truth. Leonore was being brought along. She was being educated. Sarah knew that Miriam planned to infuse Leo with her blood. Now she wondered if she herself would be killed or set adrift on her own?

People murmured around them, expressing happiness to see Miriam - some familiar faces, others less so - while Sarah anguished inside over what was taking place.

Some were staring with the mixture of fascination and horror that the true insiders shared, the ones who knew to be thrilled but also terrified when she swept them into some dark corner of the Veils, and kissed their necks in a moment of tipsy excess.

Miriam went to a young Latino - a kid she had marked as an upcoming star - and kissed him, brus.h.i.+ng his cheek with the rough tip of her tongue. Miriam was never wrong about such things as stars. Carlos Rivera would certainly become one. So, for that matter, would Kirsten Miller who stood beside him, her careful, beautiful face radiating intelligence.

Then Miriam was finished with them, speeding out with Sarah behind her. Luis, their driver, came up to take the bags that others had conducted through customs. Inner New York, secret New York, had been waiting for nothing but her return. Now the delicious terror could continue. Was she going to feed? Would it be some forgotten soul, ready for death? Or someone who deserved it - one she had judged in her correct and careful way? If so, would it be one they knew, perhaps some garish magnate who had tried to lie his way past the Veils? If it was, then who must they carefully fail to notice was missing, who next?

"One of my shorts paid off," Sarah said after Luis had pulled into traf-fic and Miriam had settled back with a cigarette.

"How much?"

"It was BMC Software. We made thirty-three percent."

"On what?"

"Six hundred thousand."

Miriam smoked, gazed out the window. Sarah had heard the little grunt of approval that the awareness that she had made nearly two hundred thousand dollars had drawn from her.

Suddenly she s.n.a.t.c.hed off the big hat, which she had been wearing since Paris. Then she said, "My head is warm." She inclined it toward Sarah, who set about removing the wig. Even when Sarah had bathed her in the enormous tub at the Crillon, she had not allowed this wig to be taken off.

"Are you ready for this, Luis," Miriam called, her voice tart with angry irony.

The silky blond strands of hair that had waved in the wind like fronds in the sea were gone. The effect was so disturbing that Sarah drew back. Miriam smiled, her face looking utterly false and improbably small on her strange, long head. In Egypt, they had concealed their heads beneath tall headdresses. Raise the crown from Nefert.i.ti, and you would see Miriam's mother with the same long head. She was called Lamia only among her own kind, and in myth. In the nations she had ruled, she had been many queens.

Miriam's eyes were wet. The baldness embarra.s.sed her, even before Sarah, who knew every intimate stroke of her being.

"Oh, my love! My love, what - what - "

"They tried to burn me to death," she said.

"The other Keepers? My dear G.o.d!"

Miriam's eyes bored into Sarah's. In that moment, she seemed more profoundly alien than ever before. They were the eyes of a G.o.ddess . . . or a predatory insect. Gla.s.sy, cruel, and way too quick, the way they flickered about.

Sarah's heart broke for her. Lamia had died by fire, and Miriam had spent many a Sleep with her head in Sarah's lap, crying out as she helplessly relived the horror of that day.

Sarah threw her arms around Miriam. "Miri," she whispered, "Miri, I will never let that happen to you, never! never!"

"We're in terrible trouble, child."

"I know it, oh, G.o.d, I know it."

Miriam came close to her, took her hand. They remained like that - both silent, Sarah weeping - on the long, traffic-choked drive home.

TWELVE.

Sourball Express Paul watched Justin Turk fool with his pipe. You weren't supposed to light up inside the building. Langley was a nonsmoking facility. Justin lit up. "You know," he said, "you're a good ten grades away from the use of exclusive air transport."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"You requisitioned a Falcon Jet a.s.signed to General Ham Ratling and took it from Bangkok to Paris on a noncontracted run. Meaning that we got a forty-eight-thousand-dollar bill from the Air Force, plus a letter from Secretary Leisenring. A very p.i.s.sed-off letter. The general and his wife and kids all ended up in first cla.s.s on Thai Airways, and we got a bill for that, too."

"It was a hot pursuit, Justin. For Chrissakes."

"A hot pursuit." He pulled a yellow pad out of his desk. "So how do I write this up? Give me words, buddy."

"Agents were in hot pursuit of a female vampire -"

Justin held up his hand. "Say something else."

"Terrorist."

"A terrorist contact incident has to be written up on one of those - lemme see here - Candy!"

Candy Terrell, his a.s.sistant, came in.

"I need a TCI form," he told her.

"What the h.e.l.l is a TCI form?"

"Terrorist Contact Incident. Every field op who thinks he's encountered a terrorist, whether known or unknown, has to fill one out and file it within six hours. It's been days in this case, of course. But n.o.body expects less from our boy."

Candy left the room.

"We'll return to the plane issue later. I thought you were injured."

"It healed."

"In two days? The police report said you had a knife wound in your left shoulder that took eighteen st.i.tches. Why isn't your arm in a sling?"