Realm of Shadows

Book 4: Alliance Vampires

by Heather Graham

Genres: Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

Every nightmare has its beginning.

Tara Mason wants more than tourist sights out of her trip to the city of dreams, something strange and off the beaten path. But is it her own curiosity that draws her to an ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Paris? Or is she lured by a dark, immortal force she is powerless to resist? When she realizes someone is chasing after her, a shadowy figure getting closer and closer, how quickly the dream becomes nightmare....

In the dead of night.

He calls himself a guardian. He is sworn to protect the innocent from an evil most never see. Now that he has caught up to her in the abandoned ruins of a country estate, he insists Tara must trust him. She has carelessly exposed herself. The evil has seen her, but he vows it will not claim her....

Release date: September 1, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

“He has changed since you last saw him. He has simply changed.” Ann waved her hand in the air as she spoke, the plume from her cigarette creating a swirl of smoke.

Tara stared at her cousin blankly. She was exhausted-she had managed to cross the Atlantic without even a catnap, despite the overnight duration of the flight when traveling eastward. She wanted nothing more than to reach her grandfather’s little chateau on the outskirts of Paris, but after picking her up at the airport, Ann had insisted they stop for petit dejeuner before heading out of the city.

And now, though she wasn’t putting it in so many words, Ann was trying to tell her that their grandfather was senile, or suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

Tara narrowed her eyes, perplexed, as she watched Ann. She shook her head, taking a long swallow of her café au lait. “Ann, if Grandpapa is ill, then perhaps he should come back to the States—”

“Phui!” Ann wrinkled her nose, inching it higher in the air. “Why must you always think that there will be something better in the United States?”

“I didn’t really mean that,” Tara said, then lowered her eyes, biting her lip. The medical care in France was excellent. She did have that tendency to think that the best of everything had to be in America.

Except for croissants, perhaps. And café au lait.

She looked at Ann and grimaced ruefully. “Sorry.”

Ann shrugged.

“But if you’re trying to tell me that he has lost his mind completely—”

Ann sighed deeply. “No, no, it’s not that! Really, it’s not that at all.”

“You think, though, that he is becoming senile? He’s certainly old enough to be allowed some eccentricities.”

Ann shrugged again at that. “Mais oui. He claims he does not know how old he is himself. He said that he was older than most of the boys in the Resistance, and lord, World War II ended in nineteen forty-five! So, yes, he is up there in years. He has had the respiratory trouble, as I told you on the phone, but I’ve had him out of the hospital now for several days, and though I chide him and tell him he must be careful, he is up and about a bit each day. But he sits in his library when he is up! He shuts himself in, and he talks about something that he calls the Alliance all the time.”

“Perhaps he is reliving his war years.”

Ann appeared troubled, drawn, and weary, which was not like her. Tara had always thought her cousin was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her eyes were deep, penetrating blue. He hair was dark, her complexion very fair, and the contrast was startling and appealing. She was tall and elegantly slim, with curves just where they should be.

There had been times in Tara’s life when she had hated the visits of her French cousin. She’d had too many friends in high school and college who all but drooled openly when Ann came around. She could admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the years, but she also loved her cousin, more so once she had gotten older, when high school and college were long in the past. Ann had spent enough time in her house when they were growing up to make it a rivalry that sisters might have shared—except that in Tara’s case, her “sister” had come with a fascinating accent and the allure of being an exotic foreigner. Ann came to the United States frequently; Tara and her family went to Paris just three times in the years when she was growing up. Ann spoke both French and English perfectly, while Tara’s French was poor and her accent far too obviously American. Jacques DeVant had fallen in love with their grandmother, Emily, an American nurse, at the end of the war. The two had married, and moved to the United States. Their son, David, had, in turn, fallen in love with a French artist, Sophie, during a summer term of college in Paris. He had remained, while their daughter, Tara and her brother Mike’s mother, had married Patrick Adair, a first generation Irish American.

Their cultural differences therefore, despite their grandparents, were great.

But those old times seemed long ago now. When Tara graduated from college, she had spent a summer at the old chateau. Her grandmother had died and her grandfather had moved back to Paris by then, taking up residence in his family home, where Ann had grown up. Ann’s parents had retired, and spent most of their time in a little house on the beach at Costa del Sol.

To call her grandfather’s house a chateau was, perhaps, a bit presumptive, but it had been called Le Petit Château DeVant since it was enlarged in the seventeen hundreds, and thus it remained. The war had basically destroyed what hadn’t exactly been a family fortune, but a decent portfolio, and now, though somewhat decayed, the little estate did have tremendous charm. The house itself was two stories with an old-fashioned hall rather than a parlor or living room, a magnificent library, and beautiful upstairs bedrooms with balconies that overlooked a courtyard. The carriage house still housed a small buggy and Daniel, an incredibly old, gentle, gray draft horse who did little more these days than amble around the adjoining pasture.

Ann suddenly shook her head and crushed out her cigarette, leaning forward. “It’s not the war. Perhaps his writings have gotten to his mind. Maybe he read too many American comic books. He is distressed, thinking that he deserted ... something. He does talk about the war, saying that the realities of it made him forget what he was, who he was. And then, going to America, and he should have known, because it was there, even in America.”

“What was there—even in America?” Tara asked.

Ann threw up her hands. “I don’t know. He suddenly becomes disturbed, as if he has spoken too much. Maybe you will do better with him than I have. I took time off from work when he was so sick ... but I can’t now, or I won’t have a job anymore. I don’t make a fortune, but I love my work.”

Tara felt a twinge of guilt that it had taken her so long to make it to France. But she had a few deadlines of her own.

She and Ann had taken different paths, but oddly enough, wound up working on similar projects. Ann was an editor with a company that purchased and translated English and American titles. Tara was a commercial artist who was frequently hired for book covers.

“You can do a lot of work at home, though, right?” Tara asked her.

Ann laughed. “I have to come home to work half the time, what with the phones and the meetings all day long. But that’s just it—I have to be at those meetings.”

Tara nodded. “Well, I am here now.” She yawned. “And really tired.”

“Does that mean I’m not taking you celebrating to any local bars tonight? There are some exciting fellows around now. You said on the phone that you had split with the stockbroker.”

Tara nodded. “Yes, we split. But should you really go bar hopping? What happened to the new love in your life? ”

Ann wrinkled her nose. “We, too, have split.”

“A nasty split?”

“Nasty?” Ann raised a brow with perfect contempt. She sighed. “There was an art meeting in my office that ran very late. You know, of course, that I met Willem when he came in to take over as head of the sales force. About a week ago, he was to lock up for me—he was finishing some business with the art director and the models hired for the ad campaign—and meet me at—well, meet me at a hotel room. I left to pick up some food for a romantic dinner, but I had forgotten a manuscript I wanted to work on, and went back to the office. He had not been expecting me, nor had the model for the advertising campaign. I found him in a compromising position with the girl. I left.”

“It was your office?”

“I assumed he’d be out of it by the time I went back the following Monday,” Ann said dryly.

“And he was, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“How bad was it? Did he call? Did he try to apologize? Did he have an excuse or an explanation?”

“He called. I assured him he had nothing to say that I would like to hear.”

The man had hurt her Tara decided. But Ann also had a tendency to see the world in white and black. She could be totally unforgiving when she chose. Pride and direction were important to her.

“It must be difficult. I mean, he’s still with the company. You two still work together.”

“He does not work in my office.”

Tara was silent for a moment. Ann had talked about Willem with such great enthusiasm. She had expected to hear that her cousin was engaged at any time.

“All right, let me get a little more personal here. Just what was he doing?”

Ann flashed her a glance and rolled her eyes. “The girl was on my desk. He was bent over her. What more do you want?”

“Everything,” Tara said. “Were they—dressed?”

“They had clothing about them.”

“Then maybe—”

“Don’t make excuses for him!” Ann said irritably.

“They were kissing and pawing one another, at the very least. And that is too much for me.”

“I’m not making excuses for him. But . . . perhaps the model forced him into a compromising situation. Or maybe he was showing her a pose that he particularly wanted.” Tara grimaced, wondering why she was trying to defend a man she didn’t know, who had been caught in a situation she knew nothing about.

Ann laughed curtly. “There were no photographers in the room. Nor was the male model there. So . . .”

“You ended it then and there?”

“I said that if he stepped in my office again, I would quit. I meant it, and he believed me. Of course, I also said that I would skewer him with my letter opener. I meant that as well. Now, what about your stockbroker?”

Tara hesitated. Ann already thought that she was dealing with madness where their grandfather was concerned. She wasn’t sure how to explain the feelings that had caused her to break off her relationship with a really nice, attractive guy.

“Well?” Ann persisted. “I’ve certainly laid my heart and the truth on the table!”

“It just wasn’t right.”

“Just wasn’t right? You said that he was good looking, polite, charming, and sexy! Did he become unsexy?”

“No.”

Ann shook her head. “He made a decent income, he wasn’t a starving artist, he didn’t play ridiculous music in a coffee shop?”

Tara laughed. “No, there was nothing in the least wrong with Jacob. He’s a great person. I can’t really explain this. He wanted to move in together, buy a ring ... and I backed away. It just wasn’t . . . right. I don’t know how else to explain this . . .” she finished lamely. She really didn’t know how to explain why she had broken up with Jacob. He had understood about her coming to Paris. And yet . . .

She’d had the oddest feeling about coming here. As if she’d been waiting for this trip—this time—all her life.

And . . . there had been the dream.

She had plans to come to Paris, a little bit later, but while she was working on a deadline, trying to decide on the right date, she’d gone to sleep and . . .

Been in Paris. She had seen the city beneath her as her plane landed. She had seen the city she loved, the spires of Notre Dame, the rise of the Eiffel Tower. She had seen herself with Ann, sitting at the café, driving out to the village. And then . . . a mist had rolled in, and she was walking. Walking through the woods in the surrounding countryside, intent on her destination. And as she walked, she had been afraid.

Afraid of the shadows that surrounded the place, shadows that twisted and moved and formed strange shapes, and seemed to whisper. She didn’t know if the whispers were words that beckoned her onward, or if they were warnings. But she had to get to the house, and it had something to do with her grandfather. Every step brought greater fear, and greater determination. Through a field of tangled trees and shrubbery, she could see a structure ahead. It seemed to glow with a strange yellow light, like that of the moon sifting through clouds and mist. And in her mind, she was repeating the words help me over and over again, though she wasn’t sure who it was she was calling to, only that she believed, had to believe that he would be there.

She had awakened with perfect logic, explaining to herself that the dream was all about her grandfather. She adored him. And he was in trouble. She needed to reach him because of his illness. She was being selfish and foolish by not getting on the first plane she could in order to be with him. The dream was a warning that her grandfather needed her, and her fear of shadows was her fear of illness.

And at the same time, despite all her logic, she felt that some cycle in life was ending, and that another was about to begin. Oddly enough, whatever it was, she had been waiting for it all her life, and now was the time.

Which brought up Jacob. She did care for him. He was wonderful, full of fun, sensual, a down-to-earth bastion to balance her flights of fantasy. But there was simply something else out there, and she had to go to Paris, and discover what it was.

Somewhat insane. And yet . . .

The right thing to do.

Crazy, but right. How, she couldn’t begin to fathom. She didn’t intend to stay in Paris forever. It wasn’t her home. New York was.

Yet the call to Paris, and whatever she was seeking, was ridiculously strong.

“Maybe I should go to New York with you and meet Jacob,” Ann said, wrenching Tara out of her reverie.

“Maybe,” Tara said, “I guess I just wasn’t . . . in love with him.” Ann could be so totally down to earth and practical. There was no way that Tara could explain her feelings to Ann.

Ann shook her head in confusion. “Great. You give up Mr. Perfect, and then you give me a hard time? The man I love cheats, and you think I should listen to him. You have someone open, honest, and loyal, but you’re just not in love.”

“I do care about him, a great deal. But not enough.”

Ann was silent a few minutes, watching her, and then shrugged. “Well, look at the two of us! We definitely should go bar hopping. It’s not the way to meet the right man, but work is definitely not the right place either. And I do nothing else except work, so it seems.”

“We really should go out—only semi on the prowl—and we will,” Tara said. “But not tonight. I’m so tired. I don’t think that I could deal with the excitement of a good-looking man. Or a nice one. Or even an ugly fellow who wanted to buy me a drink.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“Sure.”

“Well, then. Let’s get on to the chateau. You can hear for yourself what Grandpapa is saying. You can talk to him this afternoon, and I will go back to work.”

“Maybe you and Willem will work it out.”

“I carry my letter opener with me always,” Ann said, lifting her hand to the waiter to signal for the check.

Ann insisted on paying. As they were rising, she suddenly froze for a moment, then caught Tara’s arm, turning her about on the sidewalk.

“What? What is it?”

“Let’s just go. Hurry.”

“What is it?”

“Willem,” Ann muttered.

“Willem? Where?”

Tara tried to turn, anxious to see the man her cousin had been so deeply involved with. Ann kept dragging her along, but she was able to catch a quick glimpse of the man. He was tall and blond, wearing a designer business suit, very suave. A lock of hair fell over the darkness of his sunglasses as he paused to light a cigarette before choosing the café table they had just vacated.

“Don’t stare! Let’s just get out of here.”

“Well, you still work with him. You could introduce me. Then I could be a better judge of his character.”

“He has no character. Let’s go.”

Ann dragged her along. Tara couldn’t help but look back. As she did so, she was certain that the man was watching them leave, though she could see nothing of his eyes through the glasses. He was appealing in a very smooth way that would have fit very well with Ann’s cool veneer of sophistication.

His attention was taken from her as he was joined by another man at the table. Willem apparently knew the fellow he was meeting. He rose, and, American style, shook the man’s hand. The other fellow was light as well. Tall, with sandy blond hair, and, beneath his business suit, he appeared to be in excellent condition. They were moving too quickly for Tara to make out his features; he, too, wore sunglasses.

Nearly tripping, Tara looked forward for a moment. She was startled by an uneasy feeling, a sense of being watched—or stalked, even. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and a bolt of icy adrenaline shot through her, causing her to shiver.

She looked back.

Neither of the men was at the table. Tara stopped where she stood on the busy street, staring back, puzzled. The two had simply vanished.

“He met someone,” Tara said.

“He’s the head of sales! He’s always meeting someone,” Ann said impatiently. “And I have to get you home, and come back in and do some work. Please, let’s get moving!”

Tara gave herself a shake. She was tired. She hated the long flight over the Atlantic. She loved Europe, but hated getting here. She smiled ruefully at herself. It was really a beautiful Paris morning.

“Tara!”

“I’m coming.”

Moments later, they were in the car, heading out of the city.

“He has an interesting look,” Tara commented, watching her cousin.

“I don’t care to talk about him anymore.” Ann still seemed distracted. “There is more to worry about than a lying, cheating, man. There is Grandpapa.”

“Is there more you should be telling me?” Tara asked.

“I have told you that he is a lying cheat. Is there more?”

“I meant about Grandpapa.”

“Ah.” Ann glanced at her. “We’ll be home soon enough. When you see him, you’ll understand.”

“But his health is good?”

“Not good, but better. He has made a sound comeback from his bout with pneumonia. It’s as if he’s willing himself to get better and be strong. One thing that has bothered me is that he’s incredibly concerned with an archeological dig going on in our village . . . seems they’ve dug to the crypts of the ruins of the old church. Grandpapa wakes first thing in the morning, looking for the newspaper. He’s asked me to go see what they’re doing. He pores over those ancient books of his, and gets all excited. He wants to go himself, but the doctors have told him that he mustn’t, that the air in such a place would be extremely bad for him. When he heard it might actually kill him, he realized that he couldn’t go. He is determined to stay alive. He is trying to stay healthy, and guard himself, but he has been driving me crazy to go down there.”

“And have you gone?”

Ann shook her head. “I am not feeding into his fantasies! I told him that the crypts are off limits to tourists and that I have no way to get into the dig.”

“Is that true?”

“It was true,” Ann said, flashing Tara a little smile of guilt. “They were worried about the integrity of the underground structure. I don’t really know what the situation is right now. There were a few write-ups in the paper when they began, but now, there may be a column or two every few days.” She glanced at Tara and shrugged as she drove. “Okay, I think they have opened the dig to tourists. I’m not sure why. We’re really nothing more than a little village on the outskirts of a big city—Paris offers the visitor so many major attractions that a small dig doesn’t usually get much attention. Some professor involved is certain that he’s on to a major historical find, but he doesn’t seem to generate much enthusiasm from his colleagues. And most people come to Paris to see the art and beauty. Those with a morbid twist to their minds can crawl down into the catacombs and see thousands of bones.”

“Perhaps Grandpapa is all excited mainly because the ruins are in our little village. He grew up here, lived a lot of his life here. Maybe he feels that there is a family connection to this dig.”

“I asked him that,” Ann said. “He was appalled, assuring me that we had nothing to do with ground that was deconsecrated. But then, hey, you’re not exactly a seasoned Parisian, but you have been to what’s world famous and historical here. If you want to tramp around in a crypt, be my guest.”

“But you said you were afraid that it would feed into his fantasies.”

Ann shrugged. “Well, I’m still afraid. But I’m also trying to catch up with work. And trying to keep the old place going with little help. I don’t mean you, your folks, your brother, or my folks. I mean on a day-to-day basis, simply keeping bathrooms clean, straightening out, keeping the roof on, and the ivy down. We’ve only got Katia running the house and Roland keeping up the grounds. Debbie, his old assistant in the States, has written to say that she wants to come to look after Jacques, but it will take her a while to put her affairs in order. So, you see, I really haven’t had any extra time to go running around to ruins. And I’m really glad that you’re here. You said that you were actually all caught up and would do some painting that you wanted to do—rather than what was commercial and paying the bills—while you were here. Maybe you’ll find inspiration in the crypt. Maybe they’ll even let you set up an easel. I don’t know. I love old Jacques with my whole heart. Remember when we were kids? He wrote popular fiction, but people were always interviewing him as if he were a great scholar or literary writer. He’s always had such a grip on the world, on human nature ... I don’t want to lose the grandfather we’ve known and loved all our lives.”

“I love him, too. He was always magnificent, larger than life. He gave me my love of art, and you’ve certainly learned a lot about writing and publishing from him. He means the world to us, and he loves us very much as well.”

“Yes, but you are the one with the love of stories and tales and fantasies. I am far too logical and straightforward for him. So you talk to him. See if you can make sense of it all.”

“I’m here to do whatever is needed.”

Ann nodded, falling silent as they drove.

They had left the city behind and were driving through beautiful countryside with little clusters of charming old houses. Minutes later, Tara saw the drive to the chateau before them, and then the home that had been her fantasyland as a child. The drive wound haphazardly through trails of flowers—Ann’s babies, as she called them. Then they came around the gravel drive directly in front of the old stone steps.

The front door opened and Roland, who was close to her grandfather’s age, came hurrying down the steps, throwing open the car door before she could do so herself. He burst into a warm and enthusiastic greeting so quickly spoken that she could pick out only one word in every few; it didn’t matter, she knew she was being welcomed. She hugged Roland, then insisted she was perfectly able to handle her own bag. By then, Katia, a few years younger than Roland, had arrived at the door. She wiped her hands on her apron, ran down the steps, and folded Tara into a massive hug as well. Tara struggled for the right words in French to return her greeting, gave up, and hugged her back. It seemed that the cheek kissing went on forever.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Ann called to her. “I’m not going inside. You’re in your old room.”

Tara had her own firm grip on her bag again; she wasn’t about to let either Roland or Katia try to take it from her.

“Your grandpapa is in the library!” Katia said with stern disapproval, shaking her head with such vehemence that little gray tendrils of hair escaped from her neat chignon and whispered around her face. “You mustn’t excite him too much; he can be such an old fool!”

“I’ll tie him down if he gets too frisky,” Tara assured her.

Ann continued around the gravel drive and headed for the street, returning to the city, and Roland and Katia followed Tara back into the house. In the once grand foyer, Tara paused. She looked around at the beautiful woodwork, and the fraying tapestries on the wall. The long, claw-footed table in the hall held Ann’s computer surrounded by mounds of paper.

Tara smiled. It was good to be here.

Far across the Atlantic, Jade DeVeau woke with a start, and then wondered what had caused her to do so.

It was still night . . . or the wee hours of the morning. For a moment, she lay tensely, eyes narrowed, as she tried to ascertain what danger might have stirred her survival instincts while she slept. And yet ...

She heard nothing.

She opened her eyes farther, twisted silently around.

Moonlight streamed through the window above the charming courtyard of her Charleston home. Lucian sat in the rocker by the window, looking out at the night.

It wasn’t strange that he should be there. Jade had changed her own natural sleeping schedule to coincide with his, and he had learned to lie down and rest in the darkness of the night. But still, many a night she woke, and saw him there. Sometimes, he read, with a book light, so as not to disturb her. Sometimes, he sat, rocking, watching the moon. Most of the time, he was at ease, simply a quiet night owl, who, when really restless, went downstairs to work or watch one of the twenty-four-hour news stations or an old classic movie.

Tonight . . . there was something different.

Jade sat up, reaching for her robe at the foot of the bed, still afraid, though she knew not why, and feeling strangely vulnerable in the naked state in which she slept. She knew that he was instantly aware that she had wakened; he could sense her slightest movement.

He turned toward her, and even in the dimness of the moonlight, she saw that he smiled apologetically.

“I woke you. I’m sorry. I thought I was quiet.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t wake me. I just woke.”

He pulled her down to sit on his lap. She drew her fingers through his hair, wondering if it was a sin to love anyone so much.

“What is it?” she asked him, her voice a whisper.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

A shiver shot through her. His arms tightened around her. “Don’t be frightened. It’s . . . whatever it is, it’s away. Far away. Of course, that’s what bothers me. I can feel something. But I don’t know what.”

As if he were afraid that he might be sending his tenseness straight into her soul, he stood suddenly, setting her upon her feet. “I’m in the mood for a hamburger.”

She looked up at him dryly. “At five in the morning?”

They were interrupted by a sudden wail. “The baby,” Jade said. She turned, hurrying to the next room down the hall. She knew that Lucian dogged her footsteps, though she didn’t hear his movement.

She flicked on the light and hurried over to the crib where six-month-old Aidan slept. At the moment, he was wide awake, tufts of blond hair standing straight up from his tiny skull, cheeks red, little fists flying, tears streaking down his little face. Jade scooped him up into her arms.

The hardest thing for her to face when she married Lucian was the fact that she couldn’t have children. She had decided not to adopt; she wouldn’t put. . .