Keeper of the Moon

chapter 15



Sailor found Darius at an inside table in the Waterfall Room, for which she was grateful. She was sure that the only reason she was keeping her ocean aversion at bay—so to speak—was the bracing effect of having been with Declan for those few minutes. Even then, she’d had a whole building between her and the ocean view. Sitting outside would be tough.

Darius had a pile of contracts in front of him. He looked up as she approached and then stood. And they say chivalry is dead, she thought. Her godfather might be a cold bastard, capable of all manner of ruthless behavior, but nothing interfered with his manners. He pulled out her chair and then took his seat again.

“Well?” he said.

Might as well dive right in, she thought, before she lost her nerve. “Last month your assistant, Joshua LeRonde, had in his possession a vial of the pathogen I’m infected with.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She was taken aback. “This isn’t news to you?”

Darius leaned back in his chair. The blue of his dress shirt accentuated the pale perfection of his skin, his sharp cheekbones, his aquiline nose. “It is, in fact. Perhaps you’d care to share the source of this story.”

Sailor took a deep breath. “Catrienne Dumarais. She called it—the Scarlet Pathogen—by another name.”

“Shúile scarióideach.”

“Yes.”

He stood. “Let’s take a walk.”

She felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. “No, I—”

“Not on the beach, my dear,” he said, putting his contracts into a briefcase. “I won’t torture you. But I’ve been in this restaurant quite long enough for one day. Packaging a film is tedious work. This particular director likes to eat while doing business. I kept his martinis coming and was able to talk him into some things that he would not have agreed to sober.”

As he talked, he was leading her out of the restaurant so smoothly that she had no room to protest further. When they passed the maître d’, Darius handed the man his briefcase. She wondered if he’d paid his bill earlier, or if he was so famous that he got to just wander off, like a pope or a president, not bothering with the mundane details of life.

He guided her down a series of steps that led not to the beach, which was some distance away, but to a residential road crowded with small, and no doubt expensive, houses. Walking here was less anxiety-producing than sitting high up in Geoffrey’s, with its panoramic views. The sea smell was sharp and the surf disturbingly loud, but the latter would make audio surveillance difficult, and that, Sailor guessed, was the point of the exercise.

“This vial of shúile scarióideach to which you refer,” Darius said without preamble, “surfaced recently. It was, in fact, buried treasure. Do you recall the Malibu fires of 2007?”

“Yes,” she said.

“A house off Malibu Canyon Road burned to the ground. The owners, disheartened, left town. Last winter the property was sold. As the debris was cleared away, a fireproof safe was discovered, itself an antique, although not nearly as old as what it contained. I imagine the previous owners had no knowledge it was buried on their property. I learned of this discovery, I’m sorry to say, too late to acquire the safe or its contents.”

“How did you learn of it?”

“My assistant, Joshua, has a cousin. Like Joshua, a shifter, but one of some...renown.”

“A breugair?”

He smiled. “Very good. Joshua’s cousin found it necessary to leave Los Angeles a year or two ago, but he returned last month and did a job for client. He borrowed Joshua’s car to do it. When Joshua learned the nature of the job, he thought it might interest me. He was right. At that point I did some investigating and learned a bit more.”

“From?”

“An antiquities dealer who had examined the safe and its contents. A discreet man, but upon hearing that his own persona had been, shall we say, borrowed by the breugair, he became irritated and then...less discreet.”

“And told you what?” Sailor asked.

“Inside the safe were six vials, and inside the vials, as you learned, was the shúile scarióideach. The Scarlet Pathogen.”

“Why would anyone do that? Save samples of a deadly disease?”

“Why does one save anything? Historical value, scientific research, a feeling it could come in handy one day. I myself have a little stash of the shúile scarióideach. To continue, six vials were sold to a collector. There was, in the box, room for two more, and there were signs that they had been recently removed.”

“Presumably by the murderer?” she asked.

He nodded. “Who then hired Joshua’s cousin to authenticate the vial.”

She stopped. “Darius, can we dispense with the suspense? Do you know who the murderer is or don’t you?”

“I do not.”

“The collector who bought the other six, couldn’t it be him?”

“That would be your colleague, Charles Highsmith, and no, it couldn’t.”

“Highsmith?” Sailor exclaimed. “My God. And why couldn’t it be him?”

Darius raised an eyebrow. “Motive?”

She recalled Alessande’s words. “Create a crisis and then exploit it for his own advancement,” she said.

Darius shook his head. “Too risky, too uncertain and far too bloody. Not his style. He’s too antiseptic, a man with a need to control every aspect of his well-ordered little world. Also, during the time of Gina’s murder, he was in my company, along with hundreds of others, watching Gustavo Dudamel conduct the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Finally, Highsmith has nothing to do with the film industry. It’s not a natural pool for him to swim in.”

Sailor nodded. “And the night I was attacked, he was at Hollywood Bowl.”

“Oh, the killer you’re looking for isn’t the same person who attacked you, my dear.”

“How can you know?”

“Because that was me.”

Sailor stopped walking, took a ragged breath and stared at him. She had a rare impulse to cry, which she did not give in to. When she found her voice, she whispered, “Why, Darius?”

“A wakeup call.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“You were a substandard Keeper. Almost an embarrassment. And your father had asked me to keep an eye on you.”

She could feel herself blushing, recognizing the truth of what he said. “And you think assault was what he had in mind?”

“I’m a vampire, not a life coach. Your father knows my methods are...effective. And you’ve come a long way in a few days. I knew you wouldn’t be harmed by the shúile scarióideach. I was around in the eighteenth century. Quite a few Keepers contracted it with no more lasting effects than those from the common cold. But I thought it might get your attention.”

“It did.”

“And brought you, in turn, to the attention of others. I plucked you from the cheap seats and put you front and center, in the middle of this crisis. You may thank me later.”

She didn’t feel grateful, she felt betrayed—by a man she considered a surrogate father. “But I was in danger. I still am. A killer is after me. A friend of mine died because of that.”

“Because of your investigation, not because of the Scarlet Pathogen. It’s because you’re stepping on toes, you’re coming too close, you’re a threat. And isn’t that the job? Someone thinks you’re dangerous to him. That’s to your credit.”

“You could have been straight with me, Darius.”

“It’s not my way, child. Don’t attribute to others your own morality. Such naïveté can be fatal. You want to be an effective Keeper? Trust less.”

I don’t think I’ll trust you again, Darius, she thought but she didn’t make the mistake of saying so. She had no time. The light was changing. It was subtle but unmistakable, the sun starting its slow descent toward the horizon. And clouds were gathering, threatening rain. She took a deep breath. “So you attacked me in the shape of a bat?”

He nodded.

“Some Elven have decided the killer is either vampire or shifter, based on that—based on a false premise.”

He looked at her quizzically. “And are they now planning a hostage-taking?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s the Old Way. And I am old.”

“Then you have to tell them, Darius, because they’ll listen to you, that the killer and my attacker are not the same, so it might be anyone at all, any Other, and not necessarily a shifter.”

“It very likely is a shifter,” he told her. “I can’t fault the Elven reasoning, although I find their faith in the Old Way childish.”

“And I find it dangerous and barbaric. Could you talk to them?”

“No. An Elven Circle would no more listen to me than I to them.”

Sailor stopped walking. “Then I won’t waste any more of your time. I’m going back.” She paused, then said, “Highsmith doesn’t know the man who sold him the vials?”

“No. He says the antiquities dealer, Stepanovich, approached him on behalf of the seller.”

“Then Stepanovich met the seller, who could also be the killer.”

“He spoke to him on the phone. The safe was delivered by a courier, who turns out to be none other than Joshua’s miscreant cousin.”

Sailor stopped. “But surely he can identify the man who hired him?”

“Almost certainly. Unfortunately, he has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? Or died?”

“For our purposes, there is really no difference. The trail stops with him.” He took her arm, walking her back toward the restaurant. “You’re doing well, my dear. Better than I expected. Swimming well for being thrown into the deep end.” He smiled down at her. “I’d waste no more energy on this proposed hostage-taking. The Elven will pick hostages who are easily overcome, nobodies with little spirit or vitality, unlikely to be missed. Not worthy of your attention.”

A seagull flew overhead, calling to its mate.

“You have no soul at all, do you?” she asked.

Darius sighed. “Dear child, must you always point out the obvious?”

* * *

Six minutes later Sailor pulled into Declan’s driveway. She’d found the house easily, because the Lamborghini Aventador was parked on the street in front of it. Mindful of Declan’s instructions, she pulled into the driveway next to a Jaguar. As she locked Alessande’s car she considered how crazy it was to be here, two hours before sunset, with moonrise occurring twenty minutes after that. However, she had to recharge her phone and, for that matter, use the bathroom, two prosaic needs without which she couldn’t save the world. And she’d promised Declan.

But it all felt wrong with the sounds of the ocean so close and harsh.

Declan’s assistant, Harriet, introduced herself and welcomed her with warmth and smiles, although Sailor guessed she was more used to keeping people out of Declan’s life than letting them in.

“Mr. Wainwright instructed me to arm the security system and wait with you,” Harriet said. “He has concerns about your safety. Did you park in the driveway?”

“Yes,” Sailor said.

“Good. I’m closing the gate so no one can get to your car. I’m arming all the doors, as well, except for the front, which we’ll lock but leave unarmed for Mr. Wainwright. Don’t even go onto the deck or the alarm will sound, and it’s extremely unpleasant.”

“I won’t be going onto the deck. Do you have a phone charger I can borrow? I have the same phone as Declan.”

“Right over here,” Harriet said, leading Sailor to a kitchen, immaculate and beautiful, with gray stone counters and white cabinets. “Mr. Wainwright will be home eighteen minutes from now. He was specific about that, so you can set your watch by it. Would you like something to drink or eat?”

“No, I’m fine. But a bathroom?”

“The guest bath is being remodeled, but the master bath is one flight up. And I’ll be one flight down in the office.”

Sailor plugged in her phone first, looking from the kitchen into the living and dining areas, which formed one great room. The house intrigued her, and under other circumstances she would revel in exploring it on her own, enjoying a glimpse into her lover’s world. It was modern and serene, and it drew her in and made her want to stay. The art on the walls enchanted her, although she couldn’t say what style or period the paintings were. The Lamborghini key on the kitchen counter near the phone charger was the only thing she recognized, yet everything looked somehow familiar to her. She had the strangest feeling that she belonged here.

Except for the view. Sliding glass doors ran the length of the house, displaying the ocean. Maybe if the curtains were closed she could stand it.

She helped herself to a glass of water, and noted the landline next to the cell charger, along with a stack of Post-its and a silver pen. On the top Post-it were her own name and number in a handwritten scrawl. Declan’s, no doubt. She noticed that he crossed his sevens in the European manner. Funny that she knew him intimately, yet knew so little else about him. What a strange three days it had been, how very— Another Post-it, this one stuck to the countertop, caught her attention, this one in a different and very neat handwriting, perhaps Harriet’s. She stared at it, feeling her heart thump in her chest. Call Vernon Winter.

Vernon Winter, the man she’d met the night of the attack. Except she hadn’t met him, she’d met a shifter posing as him.

Could that shifter actually have been a shifter Keeper?

Had Declan been Vernon Winter?

It was possible. There were disparities in the degree to which a Keeper shared the traits of the species. Some Keepers had many of the talents—and liabilities—of the creatures they protected, others were little more than mortal, with pale birthmarks and very mild abilities. Declan was obviously in the former camp if he could fly.

But why would he misrepresent himself, and why keep it secret later? Why listen to her account of her attack as if it were news? It was as unsettling as a flat-out lie. And Alessande, too, had been part of the deception. Don’t jump to conclusions, she told herself. He must have had a reason. She would let him explain.

Her phone came to life at that moment, alerting her to five urgent messages. She picked it up, putting aside her train of thought.

Both Barrie and Rhiannon had called to update her on their Council meetings and confirm what Declan had told her. Reggie had called three times. Forgetting all about her need for the bathroom, she dialed him immediately, pacing the room as far as the charger cable would allow while she waited for him to pick up. His phone went to voice mail, so she left a message asking him to call her, then hung up. She hurried upstairs to the master suite, another marvel of interior design that she couldn’t take the time to admire. She used the bathroom, glanced at the shower and hot tub—which brought to mind scenarios of the things she and Declan might do in them that were only peripherally concerned with getting clean—and took a look at herself in the mirror, noting that her eyes were nearly their own shade of green once again. She was hurrying back through the bedroom, wondering if she would ever lie with Declan in that vast king-size bed under that gray linen duvet, when something in the sitting area caught her eye.

It lay on a side table, a small leather bracelet studded with jewels.

Feeling a little ping of jealousy, she picked it up. On closer inspection, it wasn’t a bracelet at all but a tiny pet collar.

But Declan had no pets.

And she’d seen it before, she was certain. Where, though? The only cat of her close acquaintance was Sophie, who belonged to Barrie. Sophie wore a rhinestone collar worth $7.99. This was in another class altogether. For one thing, it was Gucci; for another, it had charms on it, green gems, quite beautiful. Sailor wouldn’t know a real emerald from a piece of glass, but she knew what Gucci meant: money to burn. But why was this significant? She read the tag. Tamarind.

She recoiled.

It wasn’t a name you would forget. Tamarind was Charlotte Messenger’s cat, a gray tabby she famously took everywhere with her. Charlotte had named her pet after a tree, a bit of trivia that Sailor had noted because it was a nod to her Otherness. The Elven were crazy about trees. Trees were their passion, their totem, the birthmarks of their Keepers. And Charlotte was equally passionate about her cat. News accounts of her death invariably mentioned Tamarind’s disappearance.

And here was her collar.

Shaking, Sailor went downstairs to her plugged-in phone and got online, typing in “Charlotte Messenger” and hitting “images.” There it was, the photo she’d remembered, taken the day before Charlotte died. She’d been photographed coming out of a Rodeo Drive boutique with Tamarind’s head peeking out of a handbag, the jeweled collar clearly visible around her furry neck. The same collar Sailor now held in her hand.

Her phone rang, so startling her that she dropped the collar. She answered, praying that it wasn’t Declan.

It was Reggie. “Sailor,” he said. “Joshua LeRonde? He’s not the killer.”

“I know.” Reggie had to be upset, she thought, to be speaking so openly on a cell.

“But I found something significant. I think. It’s— I think I found the crime scene.”

“The what?”

“Charlotte Messenger. Remember? They found her body on the beach, but they never found the place she was killed.”

“Oh, my God, Reggie. Where are you?”

“Just off Kanan Dume. Are you still at Geoffrey’s?”

“No, but I’m not far,” she said. “Point Dume. I’ll meet you.”

“Okay. I’m a half mile inland from Pacific Coast Highway. There’s stuff here I think could be proof. Even if we don’t have the killer’s—”

Her phone beeped, alerting her to a text. “Hold on, Reggie.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. It was from Declan.

On my way, the text read. Home in five.

Panic shot through her. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t ask him about the collar, but neither could she pretend there was nothing wrong, that she wasn’t freaked out. She wasn’t that good an actress.

She had to get out of his house.

“I’m coming,” she told Reggie. “I’ll call you from the car and you can direct me.”

“If you’re at Point Dume, you’re no more than five minutes away.”

Five minutes. The time it would take for Declan to return. And her car, Alessande’s car, was behind a security gate that she didn’t know how to open.

She grabbed the Lamborghini keys and ran out the front door.

* * *

Declan couldn’t say what it was exactly that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he knew exactly what time it was and where on Santa Barbara’s State Street he was when he realized that Sailor had shut him out.

It wasn’t until she closed the mental window that he was aware how deeply he’d been connected to her psychically for the past two days and nights. Psychically, physically...and emotionally.

For forty-eight hours the world had been far less cold.

He knew, because Harriet had texted him that Sailor had made it to the beach house. But after that something had either deeply upset her or...rendered her unconscious? He didn’t know how to interpret this, the shutting down of the strong current between them.

The thought of her being in danger so unnerved him that he had to take several moments to calm himself to effect the change. That had never happened to him. He knew he had strong feelings for her, but until now he hadn’t suspected their true depths. He texted her, in case she was conscious and frightened and needed to know he was coming. No reply.

He moved to an alleyway where he would be blocked from view. And then he shifted.

* * *

The Aventador was a bitch. Sailor realized it within seconds, starting with the crazy doors that lifted up and out. Once inside, she had to deal with a paddle shift system she wasn’t used to, and then a blind spot the size of a horse combined with seven hundred times more power than a horse, which made getting out of a tight parking spot onto Pacific Coast Highway and into Friday night traffic hair-raising.

Plus, she was stealing a car. If Declan was a murderer, the theft was justified; if he wasn’t, he could very likely become one, once he discovered her theft. But she’d had no choice. Getting Harriet to open the gate would have taken time and persuasion, and Declan would have returned before she could succeed. Even now there was a chance he had a bird’s-eye view of his own car fleeing his own house.

She should call someone. Brodie? But there might not be enough evidence for a search warrant. A Gucci cat collar, the fact that Charlotte’s body had been found on the beach somewhere nearby—was it enough?

Something about Charlotte’s body and the beach nudged her memory, saying pay attention to me, but so many thoughts needed attention that this one would have to take a number and get in line.

Could Declan really be a killer? It wasn’t possible. It made her blood run cold, then hot thinking about it. It was unimaginable. On the other hand, Darius had attacked her, torn open her chest and injected a pathogen into her bloodstream. Her own godfather, a man she’d known since birth, had done this. And she’d known—really known—Declan only a few days.

And nights.

Leave your feelings out of it, she told herself. Think. First, Declan had access to Charlotte, Gina, Kelly and Ariel, not only because he owned a nightclub they’d all frequented but also because he could get onto any set in Hollywood. Except Knock My Socks Off, but that wouldn’t matter because he could have met Charlotte anywhere. He was a man who stayed on good terms with his lovers. Alessande was proof enough of that.

Second, he had the resources to acquire a vial of the Scarlet Pathogen. He had property everywhere, and money.

Third, he would have alibis. Anyone who could shift well enough to fly could make people believe he was drinking with them all night when in fact he could commit a quick murder and return to the bar by last call. She’d done it in college, party hopping through teleportation. Exhausting, but possible. The amazing thing was that Declan could fly at all. Barrie, for instance, was a very talented Keeper, but she couldn’t do birds well enough to become airborne. Declan must have an immense amount of shapeshifter in his DNA, which only added to the strikes against him.

Fourth, he was undoubtedly the one who’d shifted into Vernon Winter, deceiving her both then and after.

Add to that Charlotte being found near his beach house and Tamarind’s collar being in his house—not to mention the message not to trust the one who flies—and it was no wonder Darius’s words echoed in her ear. Would she ever learn?

Trust less.