He almost didn't bother to correct the bishop. It was better that the Brethren think Alexandra was dead. "My sister is still alive. She's with Cyprien now." He wouldn't say she was one of them, because he didn't quite believe it. Could his sister really be a vampire?
"For God's sake, then, come back to us, John," Hightower urged. "I'll explain how Stoss and Cyprien manipulated you between them. If these creatures have Alexandra, then the Order is the only thing that can keep you safe now."
"I know what the Order can do." John shook his head and rose to his feet. "I'll take my chances."
"How much money do you have?" Hightower removed a slim wallet and opened it.
"I can't accept—"
"You said you're done being a priest, Johnny. As soon as I file the paperwork, which to respect your wishes will be today, your income will stop. The maledicti won't permit your sister to help you, and if you try to lay claim on her estate, they will make it vanish." The bishop held out a handful of bills until he saw that John wasn't going to take them. He grimaced and put them back in his billfold. "You can't do this on your own."
"I can." John expected to work, and he wasn't too proud to take any job. He couldn't afford to stay in hotels any longer, but there were efficiencies, and even homeless shelters. He didn't have to live on the streets again.
"Let me help you." Hightower lumbered out of the chair and rested a hand on John's shoulder. "I won't try to push money on you or talk you into coming back to the Order or the priesthood. I've made enough mistakes, my son. From this point forth, I'll support whatever decisions you make."
"Why?"
"You're the closest thing to a son that I'll ever have," Hightower said simply.
John didn't trust the bishop entirely, but Hightower had come to meet him on his own, and he had never condemned John for his actions. The fact was, he would need some help to make a new start. "What did you have in mind?"
"Dougall Hurley is looking for help at the Haven," Hightower said. "Hurley manages the place, and he's an ex-priest, but he has no connections with the Brethren. The Haven is a shelter for runaway teenagers. The church provides some of the funding for it, but that's our only involvement. Hurley handles the place on his own with a small staff, but he needs more help for the kids."
John knew of the Haven, which was located a half dozen blocks from St. Luke's, his former parish. It had been in operation for more than twenty years, and had an excellent reputation. "I have no experience working with runaways."
"You took a couple of psychology courses in the seminary, and you've worked with troubled children in the past. These youngsters are desperately in need of guidance." Hightower sighed. "Dougall does well with the practical side of things, but he needs someone to provide quality counseling. You would be a godsend, John."
The last time he had followed Hightower's wishes, he had been imprisoned in Roman catacombs, drugged, tortured, and driven to rape.
It has nothing to do with the Brethren, John thought. If it doesn't work out, I can walk away. "All right," he told the bishop. "I'll go see Hurley and apply for the job."
Chapter 5
A soft, polite tapping on the bedroom door dragged Jema from an exhausted sleep. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, miss," Micki, the upstairs maid, said from the hallway, "but your mother would like to see you downstairs."
The clock on her bedside table read 7:02 a.m., a full hour earlier than the alarm Jema had set to get up in time for work. She must be ready to read me the riot act. "I'll be down in five minutes, Micki," she called out, wincing at the rasping sound of her own voice.
"Thank you, miss." Footsteps retreated quickly.
She sat up and tried to yawn. "Ugh."
Someone had cemented Jema's tongue to the roof of her mouth, which tasted as if she'd been sucking on a dirty penny. Because she often experienced nosebleeds during the night, she checked for stains.
Five small reddish-brown spots marred the ivory case, right where her head had dented the pillow.
She felt her nose with cautious fingertips, but something made her lower lip throb. The source turned out to be two deep, small gashes on the inside of her lower lip. They only began to sting the second she discovered them with the tip of her tongue. Her chin itched; she scratched and looked at her hand. Flakes of dried blood were under her fingernails; streaks of the same reddened her fingers and palm.
That accounted for the spots, but not the mess on her hand. I must have bitten my lip and rubbed my face in my sleep. That the victim she had examined at the crime scene the night before had done virtually the same thing made her shudder.
He was trying not to scream.
Dream of me.
Something about last night was… fuzzy. Unable to decide what, Jema rolled out of bed. Maybe she'd had a bad dream. She couldn't remember her dreams, which vanished like fog the moment she woke, but she had the feeling last night's had been a doozy. As for her cut lip, there couldn't be a connection to the murdered man. It was some unhappy coincidence, produced by a restless subconscious.
Dream of me.
Her muscles protested as she walked across the floor and into the adjoining bathroom. She felt battered and exhausted, and wondered if she'd tensed while sleeping. Is that why I'm so sore and tired? Did I have a nightmare? The unexplained cuts on the inside of her Up voted yes.
She eyed the shower. Because Meryl Shaw disliked hot showers, Shaw House's water heaters were set to a low temperature. In the morning it took forever for the shower to heat up. An icy shower would probably wake Jema up like nothing else, but the prospect made gooseflesh rise on her arms. She turned on the water in the sink to rinse the revolting metallic taste from her mouth, but before she bent down the visage in the mirrored medicine cabinet gave her a horrified look.
A grotesque mask of dark red streaks covered her face.
Water filled the sink as Jema stared. That can't be me. The image reached up and tugged at her lip to look at the cuts on the inside. Had it bled this much? They were deeper than she'd imagined, like punctures instead of cuts. The sound of the sink drain trying to gurgle down the water made her bladder swell and ache.
There has to be a reasonable explanation. Okay. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head. I rolled off the mattress and smacked my face on the floor. My front teeth cut my lip. I crawled back into bed without waking up or remembering—
Golden eyes. She'd dreamed of them. He'd told her to. Dream of me.
She glanced down at the water filling the sink and saw the distorted reflection of her bloodstained face. A gasp burst from her as a sharp pain burned at the back of her head, in the same place the victim's skull had been crushed. Where his hand had cradled her head.
What's happening to me?
It took a moment for Jema to realize that pain was caused by a piece of her hair tangled around the collar button of her nightgown. Moving her head strained at the roots just above her nape. She fumbled with the button and then tore the hair free, swearing under her breath as several strands parted from her scalp and fell into the sink.
If you knew you were going to die, Detective, wouldn't you hold on to whatever pride you could?
Unbutton your blouse, chérie.
Jema jerked down her panties and dropped onto the toilet. Just in time, too; fear had punched her in the belly with a quick jab. The urine burned as it came out, and she closed her eyes, rocking a little as she forced her cramping bladder to empty.
Please, God, not my kidneys.
She felt better as soon as she saw her urine was only cloudy, not tinged with more blood. The last time her kidneys had caused major trouble, her urine had looked like cherry 7UP for three weeks. There had also been the raging yeast infection the antibiotics Dr. Bradford had prescribed to cure the kidney infection had caused.
I need a pot of coffee. Coffee always clears my head. It might also chase away the dull throb of the headache that was now forming behind her right eye. She remembered that her mother was waiting for her. Maybe two pots.
Jema scrubbed her face and hands clean, took her morning injection, and quickly dressed. Before this last year, she'd always waited until after breakfast for her first shot of the day. That was no longer possible. The downside was that the insulin ruined her appetite, so she ate less after1 the injections. If she didn't stop losing weight soon she was going to look like a skeleton.
Breakfast at Shaw House, like every meal, was held in the formal dining room. Meryl Shaw had redesigned the former reception room, ripping out the nineteenth-century olive-green wallpaper along with the antique Colonial banquet, table, and faded Persian rugs. Tall panels of burled walnut and molded brass wainscoting now bordered the room. The floor, a glossy jasper, had curious brown and green patterns within the stone that formed paisleylike patterns. Being stone, it was always cold.
The centerpiece of the room was the dining table, an endless expanse of dark oak that had once graced a castle in England and could comfortably seat fifty. The fussy crystal chandelier that had once filled the with room with its glittery, frivolous light had been banished to the attic. Recessed spotlights in the walnut veneer of the ceiling now provided more distant, anonymous illumination.
Jema didn't like the dining room—the windows, hung with ostentatious burgundy satin curtains, were always drawn—and she thought all the deep colors were depressing. At the same time, she knew why her mother gravitated toward dark, heavy decor.
Meryl Shaw knew how to work a room.
The owner of Shaw House sat at the very end of the table, a living ghost in the dark room. Jema's mother wore nothing but the iciest of white, which matched the colorless, ruthlessly cut cap of hair framing her pale face. Her eyes, as cold and clear as green marbles, delivered everything from disinterest to contempt with a single glance. Her thin lips, the only spot of color on her face, were carefully outlined with the same rose lipstick she had worn all her life.