J. D. Robb
Dead Of Night
The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out,
At one stride comes the dark.
– Coleridge
Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?
– John Milton
Prologue
Death was the end of the party. Worse than death, in Tiara’s opinion, was what came before it. Age. The loss of youth, of beauty, of body and celebrity was the true horror. Who the hell wanted to screw an old, wrinkled woman? Who cared what some droopy bag of years wore to the hot new club, or what she didn’t wear on the beach at the Côte d’Azur?
No-fucking-body, that’s who.
So when he told her that death could be the beginning-the real beginning-she was fascinated. She was pumped. It made sense to her that immortality could be bought by those privileged enough to pay the price. All of her life everything she wanted, coveted, demanded had been bought, so eternal life wasn’t any different, really, than her pied-à-terre in New York or her villa in France.
Immortality, unlike a penthouse or a pair of earrings, would never get boring.
She was twenty-three, and absolutely at her prime. Everything about her was tight and toned, which she assured herself of by examining her body in the mirror tube in her dressing room. She was perfect, she decided, giving her signature blonde mane a carefully studied, and meticulously practiced, toss.
Now, thanks to him, she would always be perfect.
She stepped out, leaving the double mirrored doors open so that she could watch herself dress. She’d chosen formfitting, nearly transparent red, with a hem of peacock eyes that shimmered and winked with every movement. Chandelier drops swung at her ears, in the same vibrant tones of sapphire and emerald as the accents on the hem of the short, snug gown. She added her blue diamond pendant, and wide pave cuffs on both wrists.
Her sharply defined lips were dyed to match the dress, and they curved now with smug pride.
Later, she thought, after it was done, she’d change into something fun, something for dancing, for celebrating.
Her only regret was that the awakening had to be done in private rather than at the club. But her lover had assured her all that nasty business about being buried, then having to climb out of some disgusting coffin was just the invention of tacky books and bad vids. The reality was so much more civilized.
One hour after the ritual-which was so frigging sexy-she’d wake up in her own bed, eternally young, eternally strong, eternally beautiful.
Her new birthday would be April 18, 2060.
All it would cost was her soul. As if she cared about that.
She strolled out of the dressing room into the bedroom she’d just had redecorated in her new favorite shades of blues and greens. In his bed-canopied to match his mistress’s-Tiara’s teacup bulldog snored.
She wished she could awaken Biddy as she was about to be awakened. He was the only thing in the world she truly loved almost as much as herself. But she’d given her little sweetie pie the sleeping drug, just as she’d been told. It wouldn’t do to have her doggie interrupt the ritual.
Following instructions, she disengaged all security on her private elevator and entrance, then lit the thirteen white candles she’d been told to set around the room she’d chosen for the awakening.
When it was done, she poured the bottle of potion he’d given her into a crystal wineglass. She drank it all, every drop. Nearly time, she thought, as she carefully arranged herself on the bed. He’d slip in quietly, find her. Take her.
Already she felt hot and jittery with need.
He’d make her scream, he’d make her come. And when she was screaming, when she was coming, he would give her that final, ultimate kiss.
Tiara traced her fingers over her throat, already feeling the bite.
She’d die, she thought, running her hands over her breasts and belly in anticipation of him. Wasn’t that wild? She’d die, then she’d awaken. And she’d live forever.
One
The room smelled of candle wax and death. In their fat, jewel-toned holders, the candles had pooled into dripping puddles. The body lay in a lake-sized bed canopied with silk, mounded with a multitude of pillows, and stained with blood.
She was young, blonde, with a bright red dress rucked up to her waist. Her eyes, a crystal green, were open and staring.
As she studied the body of Tiara Kent, Lieutenant Eve Dallas wondered if the dead blonde had looked into her killer’s eyes as she died.
She’d known him, in any case, almost certainly she’d known him. There was no sign of forced entry, and in fact, the security system had been shut down from the inside, by the victim. There was no sign of struggle. And though Eve was certain they’d find the victim had engaged in sexual intercourse, she didn’t believe it would prove to be rape.
She hadn’t fought him, Eve thought as she bent over the body. Even when he’d drained the blood out of her, she hadn’t fought him.
“Two puncture wounds, left side of the throat,” Eve stated for the record. “The only visible injury.” She lifted one of Tiara’s hands, examined the perfectly shaped, fussily painted nails. “Bag the hands,” she told her partner. “Maybe she scratched him.”
“Not as much blood as you’d think there should be.” Detective Peabody cleared her throat. “Not nearly enough. You know what they look like, on her neck there? Bite marks. Like, ah, fangs.”
Eve spared Peabody a glance. “You think that ugly little dog the maid’s got in the kitchen bit her on the neck?”
“No.” Peabody angled her head, leaned down with her dark eyes wide and bright. “Come on, Dallas, you know what it looks like.”
“It looks like a DB. It looks like the vic had a date that went over the top. There’s going to be illegals in her system, something that dulled her down or hyped her up enough for her killer to jab something into her throat, or, yeah, sink his teeth into it if he had the incisors filed to points or was wearing an appliance. Then he bled her out, and she lay there and let him.”
“I’m just saying it looks like your classic vampire bite.”
“We’ll put out an APB on Dracula. Meanwhile, let’s find out if she was-just possibly-seeing someone with a heartbeat.”
“Just saying,” Peabody repeated, this time in a mumble.
Eve did another scan of the bedroom before stepping out and into the enormous dressing room area.
Bigger than a lot of apartments, she mused, and outfitted with a security screen, entertainment screen, full round of mirrors. The closet itself was a small department store, ruthlessly organized into categories.
For a moment, Eve stood with her hands on her hips and simply stared. One person, she thought, with enough clothes to outfit the Upper West Side, and more than enough shoes to shod every man, woman, and child in that sector. Even Roarke-and Eve knew her husband’s wardrobe was awesome-didn’t rate this high on the clothes-hog scale.
Then she just shook her head and focused on the job at hand.
Dressed for him, Eve thought. Slutty dress, fuck-me heels. So where was the jewelry? If a woman was going to deck herself out for a booty call, down to shoes, wouldn’t she drape on some glitters?
If she had, her killer had helped himself there.
She studied the drawers, the cabinets that ran below the rungs and carousels and protective domes. All locked, she noted, all passcoded, which meant valuables housed inside. There was no sign that she could see of any attempt to break in.
There were plenty of expensive bits and pieces sitting around in the penthouse: statuary, paintings, electronics. She’d seen nothing on her once-over of both levels that indicated anything had been disturbed.
If he was a thief, he was a lazy one, or a very picky one.
She stood for a moment, evaluating. Eve was a tall woman, slim in boots and trousers, with a short leather jacket over a white shirt. Her hair was short and brown, chopped around a lean face dominated by deep brown eyes. The eyes, as they studied, were all cop.