Afterimage

  Other books by Jaye Roycraft

  Dance With Me, My Lovely

  Rain Series

  Rainscape

  Crimson Rain

  Image Series

  Double Image

  Afterimage

  Shadow Image

  Immortal Image

  Hell Series

  Half Past Hell

  Hell’s Warrior

  Afterimage

  Book 2 of the Image Series

  by

  Jaye Roycraft

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-15-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-893896-74-1

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2002 by Jaye Roycraft

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

  We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

  ImaJinnBooks.com

  BelleBooks.com

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  *10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Cover design: Deborah Smith

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Blue moon © Milda Basinskiene | Dreamstime.com

  Portrait of the muscular handsome guy © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

  :Eaqz:01:

  Dedication

  Thanks to Jason and Gerry

  One

  Vicksburg, Mississippi

  IT WAS STILL the witching hour when he broke into Marya Jaks’ house.

  He would have liked to believe that he chose the hour out of poetry for the occasion, but the truth was that he simply wanted to get this loathsome assignment over with before dawn so he could steal some well-deserved sleep before returning to Paris.

  A shaft of moonlight speared him from the skylight high above. A pendulum clock somewhere in the living room announced the quarter hour with four funereal bongs.

  Moments earlier, with the silence of a night shadow, he had slipped to the rear of the Louisiana-style raised cottage, searching for an easy way in. It had indeed been easy. French doors sprouted everywhere beneath the tin roof. Those leading from the rear porch into the living room were unlocked.

  Negligent! His disdain for the subject of his visit grew.

  He stood now in the living room, opening himself further to the nighttime whispers of the house. A refrigerator hummed from the kitchen to his right. The soft tinkle of wind chimes from the porch wafted through the open door. The clock ticked with the steadiness, if not the allure, of a heartbeat. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

  She immediately flooded his senses.

  The beating of her heart, strong and rich with the promise of life, reverberated in his mind, drowning out all other sounds, save one. The resonance of her breathing tickled not only his eardrums, but danced along his skin, raising the fine hairs along his arms. But it was her scent—potent, heady, and full of life—that held his attention. His nostrils flared. Riding the sweetness of life was an acrid undertone.

  Death.

  He hated aberrations.

  He opened his eyes, and his senses guided him unerringly across the living room through a bay nook adjacent to an angled snack bar. A small kitchen table and two chairs sat empty beneath paintings that filled the walls with splashes of color, the hues subdued in the gloom of night.

  A short hallway off the eating area gave access to a utility room on his left. He passed the utility room, stopped before a closed door at the end of the hallway, and took another deep breath. The scent of her blood was so strong he could almost taste it on his tongue. But this visit was business, not pleasure, and a rather nasty business at that. He ignored the age-old pull of the fluid of life and pushed the door open silently. He could see her in the blackness as clearly as if it had been daylight.

  The aberration was stretched out on the bed, limbs and bedclothes alike askew. Dark hair fanned out along one side of her pillow and flowed across her neck to twist under her arm on the other side. The hem of a pale lavender nightshirt bunched at her waist, revealing long, slim legs and round hips. White bikini underpants left little to the imagination, but the image didn’t interest him.

  He had always hated aberrations. He sighed as he poured himself into a boudoir chair near her bed. There was no reason he should be handling a case like this that a local enforcer could dispose of with ease. It was only because he had once dared to prick the good will of la directrice that she relished giving him these detestable assignments. Their tiff had been almost one hundred years ago. He wished she would get over it.

  Aberrations were creatures with tainted blood that were more than human, yet not quite damned to the realm of Demi Monde, the half-world of Midexistence. The aberration before him was the daughter of a dhampir. This dhampir, the offspring of a male vampire and his mortal widow, had been a particularly nasty creature. He had been human, but thanks to his sire, endowed with the ability to detect vampires. The dhampir had zealously hired himself out as a vampire hunter until he himself had fallen prey to one of those he hunted. The daughter, the aberration, had inherited her father’s uncanny abilities and heightened sensory perception. She was a danger to the vampire community.

  He sat and watched her.

  Her long limbs were fetching eye candy, but it was her face that held his attention. He couldn’t make out all her features, but what he did see was pleasing enough in its smooth, unblemished contours. She slept peacefully, just the barest trace of a smile curving her parted lips.

  It had been his experience that female aberrations were disgusting creatures. Unable to handle the burden of their strange heritage, many turned to drugs. Ironically, these were the aberrations most often granted life, as their unappealing scent, made more so by the drugs, discouraged vampiric contact. But their destructive lifestyles often killed them when the Undead would let them live.

  This aberration was different. He could tell from the tang that stung his nostrils that she was clean and healthy, and what his eyes beheld only supported the conclusion.

  He flipped the light on.

  MARYA WOKE WITH a start, vaguely aware that consciousness was siphoning away a very pleasant dream. She cracked her eyes and saw a man seated not six feet away from her bed. The blue eyes that stared at her were so riveting they seemed to be no more than six inches away. She wasn’t alarmed because she thought he was still part of the dream. She didn’t want him to go away. It wasn’t so much that he was beautiful. The long, aristocratic face and strong features hardly signified beauty, yet he was the most compelling vision of a man she had ever seen. She was afraid to blink for fear the vision would dissolve.

  Her eyes blinked of their own accord, however. She blinked again. The vision remained, but the dream ended.

  He was a vampire.

  The scent of the Undead didn’t cleave to him as strongly as it had to the others she had met. In fact, the air sh
e breathed carried no more than the faint spoor of a musty room, mysterious and beckoning, like her grandmother’s attic. Yet she knew without a doubt what he was. His appearance screamed Undead, from the unnatural glow of his electric blue eyes to the attitude of superiority that clung more tightly to him than the black leather trousers he wore. How dare this creature invade the privacy of her bedroom?

  She sat up, both angry and embarrassed that he should see her like this. In her culture, it was taboo for a woman to show her legs to a man. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” She reached for her blanket and yanked it toward her.

  “Alek Dragovich,” answered the creature softly, as if the name itself would answer all her questions.

  It did. Drago. She wanted to laugh. He was no dream. He was a nightmare. There wasn’t a vampire or a vampire hunter on Earth who had not at least heard of l’enforcier. He wasn’t an executioner, wasn’t even the only enforcer who reported to the Directorate. He was simply the Anti-God. For vampires, revenants, aberrations and ghouls, there was no appeal from Drago’s decisions. “I know who you are.”

  “C’est bien! One explanation saved. Do I have to answer your second question, mademoiselle?” he asked, his silky voice skating the border between whisper and breath. His words would have been pure arrogance had not the look of total boredom been so evident in his hooded eyes.

  She frowned. The fact that he was uninvited would mean nothing to a creature of Drago’s age and strength. “You know perfectly well you don’t. But would it have troubled you too greatly to call at a decent hour?”

  Both his brows lifted just slightly, as if it would have been too much of an effort to lift them any higher. “My time is valuable. I can’t afford to sit in a hotel and wait for what you consider ‘a decent hour.’”

  “And my time isn’t valuable? Do you mind if I at least get dressed?”

  He said nothing for a moment, but the fingertips of one hand tapped up and down on the arm of the boudoir chair. When he finally spoke, he flattened his hand against the arm and slowly rubbed the pads of his fingers up and down the velvet upholstery. “There isn’t anything I haven’t seen in over five hundred years, but if you wish it, go ahead.”

  He obviously enjoyed being obtuse.

  “I meant, in private.”

  At last the hint of a smile twitched one side of the perfect mouth. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, mademoiselle. A lifetime’s worth of patience was spent long ago.”

  In a motion so quick and smooth she couldn’t register it, he was on his feet. He was tall, nudging six feet, but gave the illusion of even greater height. Perhaps it was the long face, longer hair, and lean body, or maybe it was the aura of power that shrouded him, but he seemed to fill the room. The hem of his black trench coat danced only inches above heeled boots.

  “I’ll hurry, I promise,” she replied with as much dryness as she could summon. It wouldn’t do to be overtly rude to a creature as powerful as this one, but if she was going to be flagged for termination, she wasn’t going to go down without a fight, either.

  He gave her a bow as sensual in its indolence as his previous movement had been dispassionate in its speed. Then he was gone from the room, her retinas retaining only the briefest image of long, black hair and the swirling pleats of his coattail.

  She dressed, taking her time. It was not only her subtle way of rebelling against his orders, it gave her time to plan her strategy. Actually, there wasn’t much scheming to be done. She had anticipated this day for a long time and knew all she could do was debate her stand for life with as much conviction and dignity as possible. Once the verdict was given, though, she knew she wouldn’t have the physical or mental capacity to oppose even a local enforcer, much less l’ enforcier. Whatever he decided, it would be final.

  But just why was a vampire from the worldwide Directorate here to interview her? She had expected a local enforcer from the Brotherhood, perhaps a regional officer, but surely no one with more standing in the hierarchy than that. But for l’ enforcier himself to be here . . . She tried to decide if his presence boded good or bad for her. A chill washed over her as she slipped out of her cotton nightshirt. It couldn’t be good. Nothing about Alek Dragovich was good news.

  She put on a sleeveless white blouse with a low neckline, a long broomstick skirt in indigo, green, and violet, and added several handcrafted gold jewelry pieces that she herself had made. Even without high-heeled shoes, she estimated she’d be almost as tall as Drago. She didn’t have the need or desire to dress up very often, but for an audience such as this one, jeans wouldn’t do. Strangely, the simple outfit made her feel good. And confident. She would need every bit of confidence she could muster for her interview with Drago. She brushed her hair that fell to the middle of her back until the static electricity made it crackle and dance. Then she rinsed her face before putting on just a touch of makeup.

  He was waiting for her in the living room, but instead of making himself comfortable on her wide sofa or overstuffed recliner, he was on his feet. He had removed the trench coat, revealing a white knit shirt as companion to the leather trousers. His long-sleeved shirt outlined the hard, elongated muscles of his lean arms and torso as he slowly circled the room, fingering her belongings as if they were goods in a market to be appraised for purchase.

  At her appearance, he didn’t turn toward her or even look in her direction. Instead, he ran his fingertips along the bottom frame of the large painting to the right of her fireplace. His touch on the satin-finished metal frame was almost like a caress, and Marya felt violated. It was bad enough that he was here for her, but must he also examine her every possession?

  “Mar-ya, is it? Slavic, if I’m correct.”

  “Like Maria, but without the accent. And yes, it’s Slavic. So?”

  He continued fingering the frame, as if he were searching for a layer of dust. “Interesting. Not the kind of name I’d expect in this part of the country.”

  Was he intentionally trying to irritate her? If so, he was doing a good job of it. “Well, I’m not exactly your typical Southern belle.”

  “Remarkable artwork, mademoiselle. Is it yours?” His gaze slid over the painting. It was one of her ultra-realisms, done in acrylics, and showed a small girl and a woman standing at a gate.

  She planted herself on the sofa and crossed her legs as slowly as she could. “It’s one of my creations, yes. That one is called ‘The Eternal Wait.’” She paused, waiting for the inevitable comment.

  It came, but only after a moment of silence, and it wasn’t about the painting. “Your English is very good, mademoiselle. And you live comfortably.”

  Comfortably? What did he know of how she lived? “Contrary to what you obviously believe, not quite all of us are illiterate and live in tents. But you didn’t come all the way here to comment on my lifestyle or critique my art, did you.” It was not a question.

  His eyes finally acknowledged her—eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. It wasn’t just what was there—color of a beauty and intensity rare in humans and Undead alike—but what was lacking in their depths. Life. Warmth.

  “No . . . you know why I’m here,” he stated, the softness in his voice at odds with the lack of emotion in his words.

  He seemed to know everything she was going to say, and she doubted anything she could say would surprise him. “To decide if I live or die.”

  “Succinctly put and accurate. You’ve been interviewed every two years for the past twelve years. Six visits. Six recommendations. Three in your favor and three against. I perform the final evaluation. I make the final decision. Do you understand?”

  Twelve years of her life. No, more than that. Her entire adult life, brutally summed up in a few brief sentences. Three for and three against. As if nothing else in the past twelve years mattered a whit. A sharp pang of anguish threatened to squeeze her throat shut. In truth,
nothing much else had mattered. She forced herself to speak. “I understand that, but not a whole lot else. Am I allowed to plead my case, or have you already made your decision?”

  Too late she realized her mistake as he sank to the sofa beside her. Why hadn’t she thought to sit in the recliner?

  “Mais certainement, mademoiselle. You will be allowed to speak.”

  He drew out the words seductively, but the hooded eyes gave her the distinct impression that he cared little, if at all, for anything she had to say.

  The closeness of his body was suffocating. She wasn’t sure if it was the aura of power that emanated from him and crawled over her skin, eating away at her defenses, or if it was her own fear drying her throat and scattering the unspoken words of her response.

  She wanted to back away from him, but her pride held her still.

  His voice filled the silence, his mouth only inches from hers. “I have read all the reports. I know the story of your father and grandfather alike. Rest assured that I will allow none of these things to sway me one way or another. My decision will be my own, and no, I have not yet made it.”

  Assured was the last thing she felt right now. He had leaned even closer to her as he spoke, and she hated him all the more for it. She was sure he knew his closeness was intimidating, and she well knew from past experience that intimidation was a favorite tool of the Undead. She had despised the six enforcers who had visited her previously, but what she had felt for them was nothing compared to what she felt now.

  Her silence obviously prompted him to continue. “I will sum up for you what I have learned. That way, I can confirm that all previous reports were accurately made, and you will know that my decision is based on the facts.”

  He leaned back again, but the distance only gave her a better look at his face. Thick brows tented his hooded eyes, and double smile lines ran down either side of his face. A faint cleft shadowed his chin, above which rested a very dispassionate mouth. She wondered how he had ever smiled enough even in his five hundred years to etch such deep smile lines. She wanted to hurt him and scratch the lines even deeper into his face.