addressed the warning to both of them, but Erin sensed that he was staring at her. How disconcerting, how very frustrating not be able to see his eyes. What was he thinking? Was this just another routine case to him? Would he walk out that door and forget all about Megan? Would he forget Erin? Somehow the notion left her feeling bereft. His presence dominated the room, and now that he was making preparations to leave, the apartment seemed empty already. Lonely. Forbidding. Frightening.
The nightmares were closing in again.
Erin followed him to the door as he shrugged into his coat. The collar was turned up, shading the lower part of his face. The dark glasses hid the rest. She might have been looking at a mask.
She reached for the knob just as he did. Briefly his fingers closed over hers. His hands were huge and strong-looking—not cool and smooth like Racine’s, but warm, vital, competent hands. Even the scars—those horrible scars—seemed to give him an air of permanence, of immortality. He had been burned, she thought. Badly. But he had managed to survive.
And now Erin had a sudden, chilling premonition that her life had been placed in those battered hands. The feeling was oddly comforting. And frightening.
As if reading her thoughts, he said in his dark, liquid voice, “I’ll be in touch.”
And somehow Erin knew he would be.
* * *
“Detective Slade? May I have a word with you?”
Slade slowed his steps as the old man appeared out of the shadows in the backyard. “Dr. Traymore, isn’t it?”
“At your service,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. There was something old-worldly about the way the man dressed, the way he talked. Slade had a strange feeling of foreboding as he stared at him. “I take it you’ve questioned Miss Ramsey?”
Slade nodded absently. Yes, he’d questioned her. He’d lingered far longer than he should have. The moment he’d set eyes on Erin Ramsey, Slade had known she was going to be trouble. She would want answers, and Slade suspected she wouldn’t rest until she had them. And what would she do when she found out he’d known her sister? Where would she take the information?
He’d been through an investigation once, years ago. He didn’t care to repeat the process. One way or another Erin Ramsey would have to be satisfied, before her suspicions could be aroused.
With an effort, Slade shrugged off his growing dread of the days to come, letting his gaze roam the backyard, automatically focusing on the crime scene. The CSU team had finished their preliminary work, and the body was en route to the morgue. The only thing to indicate the violence that had taken place earlier was the yellow ribbon that still cordoned off the area. By morning, it would most likely be gone, as well. He returned his gaze to Dr. Traymore. “I presume Detective Abrams has spoken with you already?”
“Oh, yes. He questioned me thoroughly. I’m to come down to your station later today to make an official statement. I’ll tell you everything, Detective Slade, no need to be concerned about that. But I’d like to ask you a question now, if I may.”
“What is it?”
“Who did this?” Traymore made a vague gesture with his hand toward the yard. “Or should I say ‘what’?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you, now would I?”
“I think you have clues,” the old man insisted. He took a pipe from his overcoat pocket and busied himself filling the bowl. “I think you know exactly what you are dealing with here. This is not the work of a psychopath, a ‘Looney Tunes’ as your colleague so eloquently put it. Something far more dangerous is at work here. An animal who hunts the night. A predator who is voraciously hungry. A creature who is diabolically evil. You and I both know there will be more killings before this is over, Detective Slade.”
A gust of wind swept through the trees overhead and blew down Slade’s collar. A chill crawled through him as he stared at the old man’s careworn face. The hazel eyes returned his regard without wavering. Dr. Traymore seemed to be looking through the dark lenses of Slade’s glasses, straight through his eyes into his soul. Slade suppressed a shudder. “Who are you?” he asked coldly. “What do you want?”
“I’m many things,” the old man evaded. “A scholar. An archaeologist. A man who has traveled the world searching for answers. I think you can give me those answers, Detective Slade.”
“I’m just a cop,” Slade said, “and if anyone’s going to be asking questions around here, it’s me.”
“You’re more than a cop, as we both know.”
“And you’re wasting my time. I’ve got an investigation to conduct, so if you’ll excuse me…” Slade brushed past Dr. Traymore and started across the yard.
“Does the word nosferatu mean anything to you, Detective Slade?”
Slade stopped. The whole world seemed to stop. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest as he turned slowly to face Dr. Traymore. Fog curled around the old man’s head like a misty blue halo.
He smiled. “I thought that would get your attention.” He walked through the light drizzle toward Slade. “You see, I’ve known of the existence of these creatures for a long time.”
“You’ve been reading too many Stephen King novels,” Slade said. “Or Erin Ramsey novels,” he added with irony.
The old man chuckled as he shoved one hand into the pocket of his heavy overcoat. “I assure you, the books I’ve been reading are not modern-day fiction. They are hundreds of years old, written in German and Russian, as well as Latin and ancient Greek. I’ve even seen hieroglyphs in the Valley of the Kings that depict the rising of the undead to feast on human blood. For years I’ve studied the mysteries of the un-dead. I’ve learned their habits. I know what they must have in order to survive. I know their needs and their strengths and their weaknesses. I even know what it takes to kill them.”
“Go home,” Slade ordered, frustrated that yet a new problem had presented itself to him. It was another worry that would have to be taken care of. “Obviously you need your rest.”
Traymore shook his head. “You don’t fool me, Detective. I know you’re worried. We both are, because if I’m right and certain precautions aren’t taken, Megan Ramsey could come back. And if that happens, her sister will be in a great deal of danger.”
Almost reluctantly, Slade’s gaze lifted to the window of Megan Ramsey’s apartment. Framed by the light, Erin stood there, her eyes—those deep, blue eyes—reflecting, not shock any longer, but fear, as if she somehow knew. As if she was standing there, watching and waiting for what was to come.
A finger of dread slid down Slade’s spine. When would it all end? he thought. How many more people would have to die before the evil could be stopped?
* * *
Erin stood looking out the window, gazing down at the exact spot where Megan’s body had lain. She saw Detective Slade talking to the old gentleman who had called the police for her earlier, and as she stood looking down at them, Slade’s head lifted and he seemed to be gazing directly at her.
Erin gripped the cross hanging from her neck,
