Chapter 21
Stalker
The sweet release that comes with doing what my kind does best never lasts very long.
Over the next day or two, I still felt restless and out of sorts. Little things had begun to bother me more than usual, as if the fury always buried deep inside was probing for an excuse to emerge.
I felt the constant need to strike out at something, but this hotel room was hardly the place to do it. I determined to move right away, to a dump where I could take out my aggressions without disturbing the peace.
I gathered all my earthly belongings into my worn leather bag, checked out at the front desk, and stepped into the street to find myself face to face with Martel.
"Finally," she greeted me. "You know, that wasn't a very gentlemanly thing to do, making it so hard for me to find you again. Manhattan must be one of the worst places in the world for tracking anybody – so many, many different smells."
"What do you want?" I said curtly.
She looked surprised that I'd even ask. "Well, to continue our conversation for starters and then we'll take it from there."
"The conversation was over. I thought you understood that."
"It can't be. We've only just met, and you know we were supposed to. We're going to have such a glorious time together!"
"We're not going to have any time together," I said through gritted teeth. She had to be the most obtuse woman I'd ever met.
"That's just crazy talk," she insisted, moving closer. "You are in my mind every minute of the night and day. I can't think of anything else. I love you, Masen."
"Love me? You don't even know me."
"I know enough," she said, placing her hands on my chest and gazing into my eyes. This would be so much easier to take if it was only a ploy, but I could see in her mind that she actually believed it.
"I think we should start with a world cruise. Only the very rich can afford such a voyage. That means plenty of lovely things for me. Surely you've noticed, Masen, that few people grow wealthy by being good. No doubt there will be very many bad ones to suit your fancy. You won't believe how easy it is to enjoy a good human at sea. A toss overboard and there's nothing to clean up, no suspicious circumstances."
A woman passed us, standing as we were in the middle of the sidewalk, and smiled an indulgent smile. She assumed we were lovers, I realized, nearly choking on the thought.
I stepped back. "Listen carefully, Martel. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I don't intend to get involved with anyone. Right now, it's all I can do to figure out my own limits – what I can and can't allow myself to do. Complications would make that impossible. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
She was gazing into my face with a rapt expression. Now she smiled and bit her lip in a gesture I found strangely unsettling. "Not a word," she said, "but it sounds so beautiful , so . . . sexy when you say it."
Out of habit, my hand flew to my hair, encountered a hat and wreaked havoc on the only part that showed. How did you get through to this woman?
"Oh, look, you've mussed your beautiful hair," she cooed, reaching out to touch it.
"Don't." I caught her wrist and flipped her arm back, none too gently. "I'm not going anywhere with you. Please, just stay away from me."
"It's the money, isn't it?" she said, giving a meaningful look to the clothes I was wearing: A coarse gray shirt with suspenders and serviceable trousers, dusty work boots, a limp fedora – the uniform of the working man, or those who were out of work, the best way to blend in these days. "You're ashamed because you aren't rich like me, but I swear to you it doesn't matter."
"You're insane," I snarled and took the obvious way out, vanishing at a speed that would have stunned anyone watching. Not the smartest idea, but my anger was such that I didn't trust myself to be around her one more minute.
I found refuge in a row of dilapidated tenements that attracted only the most desperate of the homeless, and none of them bothered to venture above the first floors. My ability to enter by a sixth-story window virtually ensured my privacy. I simply needed to be alone, to calm down again and put the incident with Martel behind me.
I was naïve to think it would be that easy.
A few days later, my attention was jolted by a familiar voice in my head, rising above all the others in its sheer obstinance. She was looking for me, and even though she was a good mile away, she was coming my direction.
It was easy enough to lose her, but a few nights later I'd settled onto a 52nd St rooftop intending to listen to the jazz pouring out of several clubs along its stretch. This was not the music I'd grown up with. It didn't follow the same rules, going off into uncharted territory like a musical counterpart to the strange new paintings that dominated the art scene.
Suddenly, there was Martel's voice – or her thoughts anyway – interrupting the flow, as she congratulated herself on picking up my scent. Damn the luck! I followed the mournful sound of a clarinet off into the anonymous night, leaving my pursuer and my plans for a diverting evening far behind.
A few days later I edged around the crowds at Union Square where a huge rally was being held protesting the lack of jobs. Such gatherings typically started out peacefully enough until agents of the various political factions infiltrated the mob with their own agendas, stirring up trouble wherever they could.
Where trouble divides, evil is almost certain to take advantage, so it was a good bet I could pick up a likely candidate for my next meal somewhere in the melee. Sure enough, the situation deteriorated quickly. Like wildfire, the decision spread among tens of thousands of people to descend on City Hall and confront Mayor Walker himself, demanding work or at least a plan to feed the city's starving.
The police moved in, striking out with their batons. Horses reared and trammeled protesters and onlookers alike. Giant firehoses blasted the panicked crowd. In the cacophony that resulted, it was impossible for me to distinguish a voice of murderous intent from the general hysteria, and yet, incredibly, there it was – one monologue, crystal clear, disgustingly familiar.
Martel had been shrewd enough to guess I might find this an attractive hunting ground for my peculiar tastes, and this was her favorite kind of event – disastrous and chaotic. Only the potential victims failed to meet her requirements, being among the most destitute in Manhattan.
The best I could hope for was that she'd be swept up in the mass arrests taking place all around the square and taken off my hands, however briefly. Given her penchant for decking herself out like a window at Tiffany, I doubted that was going to happen.
I understood the desire to rip your own hair out. This was beyond irritating. Of course, she could never catch me if I stayed on guard, but why should I have to? Why should I devote space in my head to listening for her when there were so many more interesting subjects to think about?
Constantly moving out of her range made me feel like a jackass. The one time I decided to stop and confront her was, of course, a mistake. I turned the tables on her, doubling back and materializing practically in her face on a dark street corner. She was well and truly startled, and I pressed the advantage, backing her into a shadowed doorway, my eyes burning into hers.
"Stop this now." I hissed. "Because I'm trying not to hurt you, but my patience is rapidly nearing an end."
Her expression went from fear to awe. "Oh, Masen, you're magnificent when you're angry. I knew you wouldn't hide from me forever. Let me go with you so we can stop all this silliness."
A loud crack, like a gunshot, split the night air as the granite behind her right ear shattered under my fist, and I was gone again.
Seething, I headed directly to the building next to where I was staying. It had been gutted by fire and slated for demolition. I'd spent a lot of my time here bashing, kicking and mutilating every inch of it in an effort to dispel my frustration and the rage that seemed to be growing harder and harder to contain. Tonight I throttled a door jamb so thoroughly that the lintel collapsed.
I was perfectly aware that what I really wanted to throttle was Martel. The question was why hadn't I done it? I'd been working on this one for days with nothing but the lamest of answers.
Any attraction I'd felt toward her was strictly physical, no more than could be expected of someone so thoroughly repressed in the presence of a beautiful woman. It had dissipated quickly when I realized her beauty was the only good thing about her.
I killed people all the time. My most guilt-free pleasure was the habitual murderers, and she was certainly that. In fact, I suspected she was responsible for more deaths than all my victims put together. My rule of thumb – was the world better off without them – might have been conceived with her in mind.
So what was stopping me?
Well, for one thing, she wasn't human, and humans were our natural prey, though the distinction hadn't fazed me with the other immortals I'd destroyed. Besides, those vampires had fully intended to kill me if I hadn't gotten them first.
Martel provoked me far more than the ones I'd fought. I'd never felt so relentlessly under attack in my existence, but she wouldn't recognize that characterization at all. She thought she was in love. I considered, for all of about two seconds, if I could be getting something out of this warped adoration of hers. Was I that desperate to hear someone say, "I love you"?
No, it was completely meaningless coming from a woman whose only value system was greed.
That left the flimsy but very real conviction that I'd brought this on myself. I'd led her on. She'd been attracted to me and I had used it to draw from her information about how other vampires conducted their lives. Killing her in response seemed not very different from Martel luring the greedy to their deaths with her gaudy jewels.
In any case, it began to seem like a moot point. A week passed and then another with no sign of her. I maintained vigilance in my mind, so she couldn't sneak up on me, but some of the tension left my body. My rage died down to a manageable simmer.
Note: At this point, Carlisle, you may suppose that we've found our smoking gun – a vampire that I didn't kill, one who was obsessed with me and just crazy enough to pursue her delusion into the next century. But you'd be wrong. There's more to the story.
One evening when the moon was nearly full again, I returned to Battery Park. A fine mist was falling that discouraged casual strollers, and it was quiet enough to hear the waves lapping close by. I felt almost peaceful for several minutes until a lone voice entered my mind, a familiar voice, chanting "let him be here, let him be here" over and over again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, summoning the strength to get through one last ordeal with what I'd begun to think of as my nemesis. We'd both had a good long cooling off period, so hopefully it could be civil and a little bit sane. For my part, I was determined to remain calm and indifferent.
"Oh, Masen, I knew you'd be here tonight," she greeted me, as I turned toward her. She was wearing the white fox coat again tonight with an ice blue dress. The large carpet bag clutched in her hands didn't match the ensemble.
"Hello, Martel. Why is that?"
"To recapture the romance of our first meeting with the big moon and all."
Off the mark as usual. I'd always come here for the same reason. That it spoke so clearly of aloneness.
Behind me the city was a tangle of sound and color and interaction between people. Before me lay only the dark silent water, casting back whatever light tried to penetrate its secrets. The mournful sound of the foghorns. Even the lady with her guiding torch, forever isolated on her tiny island. None of it connecting. Melodramatic perhaps, but I felt like I belonged here.
Or I had.
"And the second reason is that I've brought you something. I had to work very hard to make the timing of this come out right, but it did. Fate again, don't you see?" She thrust the tapestry bag toward me.
I tried to find the answer to what was inside by searching her thoughts, but they were one-dimensional as ever, consisting entirely of excitement over how much I was going to like my surprise.
With some reluctance, I took the bag and set it on a bench. Curiosity has frequently been my downfall, but with a wild card like Martel, it seemed prudent to know what she was up to.
I opened it and found Benjamin Franklin staring up at me in rows of neatly bundled hundred-dollar bills, stacks of them. I frowned. "What is this?"
"It's for you," she said with a smug smile. "Two hundred thousand dollars. So now we are both rich. We can do whatever we want."
"I told you, I don't want your money," I growled. The fleeting sense of peace I'd had standing here alone was gone, and I could feel my temper rising again.
"But it isn't my money, at least it wasn't till about 45 minutes ago. It was always meant for you, Masen."
I shook my head. There was no reasoning with this woman. I could see only two options open to me, and I was still balking at the idea of cold-blooded, pre-meditated murder.
"No more," I said simply and shot off into the shadows, not slowing till a block beyond the park. My first act, after checking to see no one was watching, was to throw a fist into the closest iron lamppost. It buckled, dipping its light above Whitehall Street in an unlikely bow.
God, I hated this. Hated that I felt like a fool. Hated that someone else could complicate my life, when I usually did an adequate job of that myself. Hated her.
It had to end, and I had to quit analyzing the situation to death and simply do it. Next to me Hamlet looked like a paragon of decisiveness, but there I was again, over-dramatizing myself instead of committing.
Martel wasn't following me. There was no hint of her thoughts in my head, unless she was operating completely on automatic now, like one of Pavlov's dogs. What was she up to anyway?
I'd slowed to a human pace, encouraging my temper to do the same. Where had she gotten that kind of money in the middle of the night? I doubted that humans kept their cash so uniformly bundled, and as far as I knew, Martel didn't have the skills to rob a bank.
Something was niggling at the back of my mind, something alarming, but it was another block or two before I realized what it was. The story had been in the news all week, blaring from the headlines on every street corner.
No.
Martel knew enough to camouflage her crimes. Surely, she wasn't stupid enough to do something so rash, so public.
I stopped.
How could anyone know what a person with no sense of right or wrong was capable of doing? It was too risky to ignore the possibility when the exposure of immortals could be the consequence.
I whirled and headed back the way I'd come, circumventing the park until I picked up Martel's scent again. I had to get close enough to hear what she was thinking. It should have been easy at this hour – not that many people on the streets, but it wasn't.
Finally, I pinpointed the place where her scent vanished. Broadway. She had to have taken a taxi. Well, that complicated things nicely. Having no idea where she was headed, I could spend the whole night going in circles, trying to pick up her trail again.
But if what I suspected was correct, I had to do it. There was no one else to stop her. I closed my eyes, trying to bring into focus what I'd seen on newsstands this week.
A kidnapping on the upper eastside. The culprit dubbed "The Eagle," because the child had apparently been taken from a 10th story bedroom with no access to a fire escape.
Damn! That should have sounded an alarm. If I hadn't have been so busy avoiding Martel, it might have struck me at the time. I ducked into a side street, checking the stoops for newspapers, finally finding yesterday's at the entrance to a basement apartment.
The story was still front-page news, though with no leads, it had slipped to the bottom of the page. I skimmed it in seconds. Police speculated that several kidnappers were involved, as someone must have been lowered from above to snatch the four-year-old girl from her bedroom.
The parents, an oil magnate and his wife, had made tearful entreaties over the radio for their child's safe return. Hopes that she was still alive had been revived two days ago when a printed note appeared at the apartment (no one was sure how) in which the child begged for her parents to come get her. Authorities were skeptical about the genuineness of the note, as childish printing is impossible to identify, but the parents were holding to that hope.
I flung the paper back onto the step, and sped off, angling my way toward the east side. I had no idea where Martel might be, but I knew where the crime had taken place, and I headed there in the shadow of buildings, glad for the lateness of the hour.
The location was not hard to find. Several men, some with cameras, were camped on the sidewalk across the street. I slipped into an alley and looked up at the blank face of the building. Only a place that catered to wealthy residents could evade the laws about fire escapes. Too unsightly. Too lower class.
There were few obvious places to find purchase in the design of the wall. No human could scale it, but with an immortal's superior balance the most subtle indentations and protuberances would make it an easy climb.
A week had gone by since the kidnapping. The area was swarming with scents, but nothing that could help me. It was even possible Martel had made her escape over the rooftops. My only hope of finding her was if she'd stayed fairly close by. It's what I would have done in a similar situation. Minimize the distance and you minimize your exposure to human eyes.
I started spiraling out from the scene of the crime, hoping to pick up a scent, listening for that vapid voice in my head. I was six blocks out when I caught it – no scent, just the indistinct murmurings of her thoughts. From there it was easy to follow a straight line south to a street of well-kept apartment houses.
Odd that she'd pick a residential neighborhood, but then I noticed the building at the end of the block. The lower and upper floors appeared relatively normal, but the bricks around the fifth story were blackened. There'd been a fire on that middle floor, and it was enough to have the entire building vacated.
Shrewd, I thought again. Vagrants had no doubt taken advantage of the lower apartments, but the upper ones were probably more or less intact, and cut off from humans looking for a place to take shelter.
Her thoughts were still following the same tedious pattern; she was counting, and I thought I knew what. At the back of the building, her voice was clearer still. I made the easy climb up rough bricks to the eighth story and through a bedroom window in complete silence.
She didn't suspect I was there till she looked up and saw me standing in the living room doorway. Her flawless face broke into a triumphant smile. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist my present, Masen, and I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away from me either."
"Please, spare me the things you 'know,' Martel," I said in an ominous tone. "What did you do with the child?"
"Nothing yet. I was going to get rid of her as soon as I finished counting the money, but just seeing you again has made me completely forget where I was. I'll have to begin again."
"What do you mean by 'get rid of her'? You can't just march up to her parents' home and hand her over."
"You really do think I'm stupid, Masen, don't you?" She dropped the money back in the bag and rose from the couch, folding her arms in a show of pique. "This was a very well-planned crime - perfect, if I do say so myself."
"You do realize that the money is undoubtedly marked in some way," I said, glaring at her. "You're not going to be able to do anything with it unless you're prepared to be arrested."
She shrugged, but I could see that hadn't occurred to her at all. "So I'll put it away for a hundred years or so, till everyone who knows about this adventure is long dead."
"They're going to keep looking for you regardless. These people have influence. Their story has captured the sympathy of the public. You have to get out of the country or risk being caught and exposing us all in the process. Now what have you done with the child?" I repeated.
"I told you, I'm not stupid. If I'd killed her at the beginning, I couldn't have sent that tear-jerking note with her little scribble. Did you hear her folks on the radio? They were so crazy with hope, I just knew they'd fight the police tooth and nail on the ransom, and I was right."
I could only stare at her.
She took my stunned silence as evidence that I was impressed with her brilliance. "If you know anything about kidnapping – and who doesn't these days? – you know the authorities always try to talk the family out of paying the ransom. Most of the time the victim's already dead anyway. I decided to keep her until the money was actually in my hands, in case it took another note to push them over the edge."
"So she's still alive?" I was sifting quickly through the voices in my head, but none of them came from nearby.
"Yes," she admitted with the first guilty expression I'd ever seen on her face. "But, I swear, I was going to kill her as soon as I finished counting the money. I'll take care of it right this minute, I promise, but then you have to stop being so cross with me." She stood and walked toward a short hallway on the left.
I grabbed her wrist as she started to pass. "Why?" I demanded.
"Why, what?" She looked surprised, but felt stupidly thrilled that I'd touched her.
"Why kill her? You have what you wanted."
"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not stupid? She's seen me. She could describe what I look like. Of course, she has to die."
I flung her away from me. She landed on the couch across the room. It collapsed from the impact, but I was already in the hallway. An open door to the bathroom on my right, a closed one with a key in the lock on my left.
When I stepped into the room, I thought the child was dead. Her heartbeat was so quiet, so slow that I almost didn't recognize it for what it was. She was stretched out on a narrow bed, wearing a nightdress, the one she'd had on when she was taken, I assumed.
The floor was strewn with picture books and candy wrappers. More candy was stacked on the nightstand along with a nearly empty jar of peanut butter and a pitcher of water. A single drinking glass had rolled partway under the bed.
"You see, I took good care of her," Martel said behind me. "I know what kids like. I even offered to read to her the storybooks, but she was always too sleepy."
"What did you give her?"
"Just some Tincture No. 23."
There was no time to indulge the contempt rising in me now. I wrapped the little girl in a blanket and straightened up, pushing my way past Martel into the hall.
"What do you think you're doing, Masen?"
"I'm taking her home. I'll deal with you later."
"No, you can't!" She threw herself at me, grabbing the lapels of my jacket and nearly jarring the child from my arms.
I repositioned the little girl over my shoulder, brought my free arm back and elbowed Martel in the jaw. The crash when she hit the wall, set the entire room vibrating, but she was up within seconds and coming at me again. This time I used my fist. Her flight took down a floor lamp, a china cabinet and caused the ceiling fixture to explode.
She was truly maddened now, her teeth bared, her fingers extended toward me like claws. But even hampered by my efforts to protect the sleeping child, I was still one step ahead of her, always knowing exactly where she intended to strike.
A kick did the trick this time, driving her into the marble mantle, which crumbled in response, and stunning her long enough for me to pick up the carpet bag in my free hand.
"We can do this all night, but the result will be the same. She's going back to her family. I can easily return the money as well."
"No! Not the money!" she gasped.
"Then stand over there until I've gone."
She was fuming, her eyes shooting daggers at me. "I'd like to rip you to pieces!" she rasped, but went to stand against what was left of the wall.
"Fine, but it will have to wait." I tossed the bag at her feet, dashed to the bedroom, and swung out the window where I'd entered. Finally, I'd had an excuse to unleash my anger on Martel and I couldn't even take time to enjoy it.
It worried me immensely that the little girl had slept through the onslaught. I wondered if she was in a coma but had no way of telling and no skills to offer her if she was. The descent was easy, the area deserted. Now I just had to find a safe place to hide her until I could summon help.
I moved through the shadows for a block or two. Nothing was open at this hour but a gin joint. I didn't dare approach anyone or take the time to find a hospital. I settled on a modest little church. It was grimy and in poor repair but a sign outside promised services every Sunday.
The door was locked, a detail easily corrected. Dim light shone from somewhere near the altar. The rest of the place was shrouded in darkness. I lay my burden down on the back pew, checking again for her heartbeat, and wrapped the blanket snugly around her. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
I made sure the door still appeared to be locked when I closed it - couldn't have derelicts wandering in tonight – and returned to the tavern on the theory that it would be one of the few establishments that could still afford a payphone.
I'd already decided against calling the police, not wanting to bring attention to this area, and ambulances were hard to come by with so many people suffering. But there was someone else whose self-interest would bring them as quickly as I needed.
I closed my eyes till my memory showed me a clear picture of the newspaper article I'd read earlier, and phoned the Times. "May I speak to Randall Mackie?"
I was counting on the reporter whose byline had accompanied the article to be keeping long hours in case there was a break in the story.
"Mackie, here." He answered on the first ring.
"Tildie Shocroft," I said, using my most persuasive tone. "You'll find her in the back pew of Calvary Methodist, 230 E 62 St. Get an ambulance there as well. She's been heavily drugged with laudanum, but appears to have no obvious injuries."
"You know how many crank calls we get about this?" Mackie said, but he was going through the motions; there was excitement in his voice. "Who are you, anyway?"
"The man who just put your byline back above the fold. Now move before I tip off a rival paper."
That should do it. I hung up the phone and retreated to a rooftop across the street, where I watched the subsequent show. The first car arrived in less than 10 minutes. Two men raced to the church door, the second one toting a camera. A minute later, a small ambulance from one of the private hospitals pulled up, siren silenced.
I waited until the stretcher was loaded and the vehicle sped away. Somewhere around Lexington Avenue, the siren sprang to life. I drew a deep breath of night air and made my way down to the street again, traveling a few blocks north till Martel's thoughts wormed their way into my head. She was counting again.
I'd had enough of her tonight. My mind was on the little girl and the story that could still turn out to be a tragedy. I walked the forty blocks back to my chosen hideaway and spent the rest of the night trying to concentrate on a history of the Plantagenets that someone had left at a trolley stop.
When morning came, I bought a paper, but the Shocroft story was merely a rehash of past articles. Several times during the day, I stationed myself within hearing of a radio, but everyone seemed to be listening to the Yankees game. Around three I moved restlessly back up to Times Square, the heart of the action, if there was to be any.
When the cries of "Extra!" popped up from several locations simultaneously, I moved quickly to buy a paper and skimmed it swiftly then and there. The relief I felt was more than I deserved, considering how little I'd done to give the story its happy ending. I still felt obscurely responsible for the whole mess, as if even listening to Martel's stories had validated her actions in some way.
Tildie was conscious. Doctors intended to keep her in the hospital for another day or two, until the drugs had left her system, but they pronounced her in basic good health. With that question answered, I went back to the beginning of the article and for the first time in a long while found myself smiling with real humor.
According to the article, just below the three-inch headline, ace reporter Randall Mackie had rescued the girl after a tip from an anonymous source. I liked that choice of word – "source" rather than "informant." It seemed to imply that Mr. Mackie maintained a covert relationship with someone in the know, the kind of person newsmen protected on principle, refusing to reveal their identity.
In fact, this particular tipster was just as big a mystery to Mackie as everyone else.
And my smile turned into a chuckle when I read Tildie's description of her kidnapper. "She was an angel with golden hair. First, we flew out my window. Then we flew in another window, and she let me eat all the candy I wanted."
I reminded myself again to take anything printed in a newspaper with a grain of salt.
The sun was threatening to make an unwelcome appearance, so I spent the rest of the day indoors. I no longer had the luxury of a choice between eliminating Martel and turning my back on her activities. Her recklessness endangered us all.
So the child had been returned safely. No one with the resources of the Shocroft family was going to let it go at that. They'd been put through hell and lost a veritable fortune in the process. Law enforcement too was under criticism for not solving the case. Even the mayor's office had to be scurrying to reassure citizens that their children were safe.
The investigation wouldn't stop here, though it was difficult to see how clues could lead to "The Eagle's" aerie. Even if they never did, eventually, someone would enter that apartment when the building was repaired, and I doubted very much that Martel had the foresight to destroy all the evidence.
I thrummed with impatience all day long until darkness enveloped the city, arriving at Martel's building as early as I dared. She wasn't there; I already sensed that, but I would find her. First, I needed to tidy up the loose ends she'd undoubtedly left behind – evidence that the girl had been held here, which would only reignite public interest, clues to Martel's own existence.
I entered through the same bedroom window as last night, but this time I immediately froze. All my senses were telling me that something was different here, something wrong. No one else was here, not now, so I moved into the parlor.
Like the room I'd just entered, it was in shambles. Part of that was my doing, of course, but not all. Not the eviscerated furniture, the pried up floor boards. Even the ice box had been emptied. The kitchen cabinets were all open, the light fixtures torn from the ceiling. It was the same everywhere in the apartment with the mysterious addition of a pool of water in the middle of the living room floor.
I stood for a long time trying unsuccessfully to puzzle out what had gone on here. My initial fear – that the police had somehow found the place – didn't make sense. The peanut butter and candy wrappers, items that would actually match up with Tildie Shocroft's fanciful account of her abduction, had been left behind.
It troubled me too, that there were scents I couldn't identify. The police would have left a trace of warm, enticing blood smells, and I couldn't detect that at all. On the plus side, there wasn't anything remaining that could point to Martel, no passport, bank statements – nothing.
But Martel herself was still out there somewhere, doing God knows what to flaunt the existence of immortals. I had to find her – and quickly. I grabbed the pillow case from Tildie's bed and stuffed in all the incriminating evidence I could find, made a hasty exit and dumped the whole lot in a trash-can fire some derelicts had started a few blocks from the building.
Then I returned to begin my methodical search for Martel. If the woman had any sense at all she'd be far way from here by now. I didn't hold out a lot of hope for that possibility, and sure enough, just three blocks east, I caught the first echoes of her voice.
What she was thinking spurred me on to a faster pace. "It's my money. I earned it. They call me "The Eagle," you know, which makes me very famous in a way, but of course, no one knows who I really am. Do I look that stupid to you?"
She was actually saying these things, to a man I didn't recognize. I closed the distance between us in record time, furious that this could be happening because of my compunctions about killing her.
They were near the loading platform of a defunct factory. A convenient catwalk afforded a clear view of the scene below, though it didn't seem quite real to me. It looked more like a reenactment from a medieval play.
Martel stood against the wall. Facing her were two figures in hooded cloaks. The taller one – he looked like a giant – grabbed her by the throat and lifted her several feet from the ground. "Tell us about your coven," he demanded.
Incredibly, Martel's thoughts were more angry than fearful. Was she really that brave, or just incredibly dense? "I work alone," she croaked arrogantly.
"And not at all cautiously," the other figure intoned. His accent was different, British. "What do you know about other immortals in this city?"
"I know enough to stay away from them."
"And yet you know so little about the rules that govern us. It's unforgiveable, you understand, to indulge in behavior that might catch the public's eye. The punishment is death, no getting around that, but my friend here can do it quickly or more painfully, depending on what you might offer in exchange."
"You already have my money," Martel hissed. She still appeared defiant, but the inevitability of her situation was finally sinking in.
"And we will have more of it shortly. I was thinking rather of a name or two. A fascinating creature such as yourself must have attracted other immortals, someone else who's aware of your astounding ability to acquire wealth."
"Nobody knows," she insisted, staring down at him with undisguised contempt.
I never knew whether she was actually protecting me or simply refusing to give her attackers the pleasure of an answer. The man who'd done most of the talking was growing impatient, and he thought she was telling the truth. With a flick of his hand, he turned away. There was a cracking sound as the giant tore her head from her body and tossed it behind him.
I'd never doubted my ability to win a fight with any vampire up till now, but I made a mental note to steer clear of that one. I had a feeling my speed and mind skills wouldn't help much against such overwhelming strength, and I would lose.
I remained, half numb, half mesmerized as the two set fire to their victim, staying until the last embers could be kicked aside, pulverized under their boots. Then they melted into the night, as if they'd never existed.
Perhaps I hadn't fully believed in it either – the story of the Volturi, but walking somberly back to my refuge that night, I had no doubt that the "funny old men" from Italy had at last become a reality to Martel.