Utterly hypnotic.
And yes, partially mad.
"I suggest," came a drawl in that odd accent, "that you back out of this attic and go down to that lovely lady of yours--"
"Are you a descendant of Rathboone's?"
The man smiled. Right, okay. . . there was something very wrong with his front teeth. "He and I have things in common, it's true. "
"Jesus. . . "
"Time for you to run along and finish your little project. " No more with the smiling, which was a relief of sorts. "And a word of advice in lieu of the ass-kicking I'm tempted to give you. You might take care of your woman better than you have been lately. She has honest feelings for you, which is not her fault, and which you clearly have been undeserving of--or you wouldn't smell like guilt at this moment. You're lucky to have the one you want by your side, so stop being a blind fool about it. "
Gregg didn't get shocked all that often. But for the life of him, he didn't have any idea what to say.
How did this stranger know so much?
And Christ, Gregg hated that Holly had been with someone else. . . but she had said his name?
"Wave good-bye. " Rathboone lifted his own hand and mimed a child's gesture. "I promise to leave your woman alone, provided you quit ignoring her. Now go on, bye-bye. "
Out of a reflex that was not his own, Gregg brought up his arm and did a little flapping before his feet turned his ass around and started walking toward the door.
God, his temples hurt. God. . . damn. . . why was. . . where. . .
His mind ground to a halt, as if its gears had been glued up.
Down to the second floor. Down to his room.
As he took off his clothes and got into bed in his boxers, he put his aching head on the pillow next to Holly's, drew her up against him, and tried to reme
mber. . . .
He was supposed to do something. What was--
The third floor. He had to go up to the third floor. He had to find out what was up there--
Fresh pain lanced through his brain, killing not only the impulse to go anywhere, but any interest in what was above them in the attic.
Closing his eyes, he had the strangest vision of a foreign stranger with a familiar face. . . but then he passed the fuck out and nothing else mattered.
Chapter Forty-three
The infiltration into the mansion next door posed no problem at all.
After regarding the activity of the manse, and finding nothing to suggest movement within the walls, Darius declared that he and Tohrment would go in. . . and in they went. Dematerializing from the ring of woods that separated the two estates, they re- formed beside the kitchen wing-- whereupon they simply walked right in through a stout wooden- framed door.
Indeed, the biggest obstacle to breaching the exterior was overcoming the crushing feeling of dread.
With every step and every breath, Darius had to force himself to go forward, his instincts screaming that he was in the wrong place. And yet he refused to turn back. He was out of other practical roads on which to traverse, and though Sampsone's daughter might well not be here, with no other leads, he had to do something or go mad.
"This house feels haunted," Tohrment muttered as they both looked around the servants' common room.
Darius nodded. "But recollect that any ghosts rest solely in your mind, and are not among whoever tallies under this roof. Come, we must locate any subterranean quarters. If the humans have taken her, they must needs keep her underground. "
As they made their way silently past the massive kitchen hearth and the curing meats that hung from hooks, it was so very clearly a human house. All was quiet up above and all around; in contrast to a vampire manse, where this would be an active time of preparation for Last Meal.
Alas, that this household was made up of the other race was no confirmation the female was not held herein--and could perhaps recommend that conclusion. Although vampires knew for certain of the existence of mankind, there was naught but myths of vampires abounding on the human cultural periphery--because that was how those with fangs survived with greater ease. Still, from time to time there were inevitable and bona fide contacts between those who chose to remain hidden and those with prying eyes, and these infrequent brushes with one another explained humans' scary stories and fantastical whimsies of anything from "bean-sidhe" to "witches" to "ghosts" to "bloodsuckers. " Indeed, the human mind appeared to suffer from a crippling need to fabricate in the absence of concrete proof. Which made sense, given that race's self-referential understanding of the world and their place in it: Anything that didn't fit was forced into the superstructure, even if that meant creating "paranormal" elements.