Key to Conflict Page 9

  Arriving at the rambling dark-stoned hulk of Boganskaya Castle, Gillian was greeted by Arkady Boganskaya, the count whose family had lived there for hundreds of years. Arkady was an attractive man just under six feet tall with long, dark brown hair and dark, compelling hazel eyes, he would have been really imposing had he been taller and had she not just experienced the Rachlav charm. Gillian still had to look up to speak to him.

  Arkady showed her in. Between his bad English and Gillian’s lousy Romanian, she got it across that she wanted to be where Dante had died and she wanted to be alone. He brought her to a little-used hallway, blocked by a tapestry hanging over its width.

  “Here,” he said, ominously. “This where Italian die.”

  Gill thanked him and sent him on his way. She needed to be able to concentrate on her task. Simple spells of summoning and protection were standard training for any field operative or Paramortal psychologist. She needed quiet and privacy without Arkady’s curious eyes.

  She’d read the file. Dante Montefiore had been an expert swordsman, minor noble and sometime highwayman. Handsome, charming and debonair, he’d traveled Europe, looking for adventure, ladies and the occasional duel, which was how he earned his living, as a hired sword.

  Basically a professional “second,” Dante had fought duels for whomever had the greatest amount of coin. He’d come to Romania to champion a Boganskaya who was accused of dallying with another family’s daughter. The fact that it was a true accusation meant nothing to Dante. They were paying him well and that was all that concerned him.

  The duel had taken place; Dante had slain the defender. In true jovial Boganskaya fashion, the family held a victory party, inviting the rest of the dead man’s family to attend. Late that night, well into his cups and uncharacteristically without his sword, Dante had been set upon in that hallway and slaughtered.

  No witnesses, no one who would talk, a shoddy investigation and the matter was dropped by the Boganskaya family. The death of a mercenary swordsman, even one who had just successfully defended the family name, was a small matter and life would have returned to normal except for one thing: Dante.

  Dante had never received so much as a scratch from a blade during his tenure as a swordsman. He was lethal with any light blade, from foil to rapier, to epeé and would have been an insufferable ass except for his dynamic personality. Always smiling and supremely confident, not to mention devastatingly handsome, he was a ladies’ man and a true gentleman. People liked Dante, even after hearing about his profession. Fame has its disadvantages too, and Dante was challenged far and wide to prove his prowess both in and out of the bedroom and on and off the dueling field.

  Never before receiving an injury, Dante was mostly shocked while traversing that shadowy hallway when the first dagger slid between his ribcage and kidney. The blows that followed were not meant to bring immediate death. The goal had been to bleed him out, and that is what happened.

  There had been more than one assailant, but it was too dim and Dante’s eyesight was failing too fast from blood loss and shock to make out any of the faces. Nauseated and dying, he’d cursed the Boganskayas with his afterlife. Fear had entered his world for the first time in those last few moments of life. Dante was supremely offended at the dishonorable act of his own murder and terrorized by the event so badly that when his spirit claimed the castle late the next night, he could hardly force himself back into that hallway.

  Haunting became an adventure. He’d always made the best out of bad circumstances and he made the most of this one. The Boganskaya family had tried wards, spells and even an exorcism, but Dante held firm. The local priest said it was because the Boganskaya family was responsible for Dante’s death and therefore could not be absolved until the Ghost gave them absolution. They’d called Gillian when they found out there was such a thing as a Paramortal psychologist, hoping that she could help Dante with some anger management and get him the hell out of their castle.

  Gillian knew Dante had a tendency to transubstantiate for periods of time. That is, he could take solid, material form; either as a whole being, or as merely blood and gobbets of flesh, such as had been flung around the hall during his murder. She was prepared for horror. Time on the battlefield had toughened her against sights that most people wouldn’t have been able to bear.

  She set up a chair and a small table left for her by Arkady or one of his servants. On the table she placed her white cloth, a copper plate and some sandalwood incense in the center. Taking a small vial from her pocket, she dripped white willow oil onto the cone of the incense. Lighting it, she sat, closed her eyes, concentrated her empathy and began to chant Dante’s name. Ideally this would have been done on the night of a full moon, but she didn’t have time. Dante was not a spirit who would be hard to find, and she needed to exercise some control over the situation.

  It didn’t take long. Gillian smelled the blood before she opened her eyes. Eyeing the incense, she saw it hadn’t burned but halfway down. The hall had transformed into the semblance of a slaughterhouse. Blood spatter and trails were everywhere. Little shreds of flesh and bits of internal organs littered the floor. From the wall to her right, the apparition appeared. Gill was ready for him. Ghosts with Dante’s problem typically projected fear and terror. This one was no exception.

  Dante Montefiore had been a breathtakingly handsome man in life. Long, wavy auburn hair brushed his shoulders. Creamy skin, offset by black eyebrows and lashes. His eyes were the clearest turquoise that Gillian had ever seen. A full, sensual mouth and perfect teeth, above which an aristocratic nose was poised. He wasn’t particularly tall, just about six feet, but he was well built: graceful and slender, almost like a dancer, she thought as he emerged from the ancient stone. She steeled herself against the wave of fear he projected, and when it came, it chilled her to the bone.

  “Who calls me?” His voice was deep and cavernous.

  He began to bleed. Stepping close enough so that the blood splashed onto her boots, he loomed over her. Gillian’s teeth were chattering from sheer terror and the chill he was manifesting. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on his, not wanting to watch the full glory of the multitude of bleeding wounds, through which white bone and raw muscle showed. The worst was a slash from his lower abdomen to his groin. The original cut had severed the femoral artery, which spurted in an endless stream, a loop of perforated intestine bulging from the ghastly wound.

  Dante looked like a Human who had been put through an ancient Vegematic. Stopping inches from her, she could hear the bubbling of his breath through the punctured lungs that had drowned him in his own blood. The smell of a slaughterhouse, blood and bowel, was in her nostrils and her stomach roiled. It took every ounce of Marine Corps grit and discipline not to run screaming from the hall.

  “You. Why do you call me?” Dante’s voice was grating and unpleasant, thick with blood and anger.

  Gillian breathed through her mouth and was instantly sorry. The taste of blood was heavy on her tongue as she spoke. “I have called you, Dante Montefiore, to ease your pain, to help your suffering end. I have called you, Dante Montefiore, to bring you a measure of peace, the hope for an end to your torment. I have called you, Dante Montefiore, to be your guide and your counselor.”

  The words and the manner she spoke them were from a colleague who specialized in disheartened and angry spirits. Saying his name three times, combined with the scents of sandalwood and willow that were battling the blood and offal for supreme odor of the hallway, bound him to her for this conversation. He had to stay and listen, like it or not. What form he took was his choice. She could tolerate it or not.

  The Ghost hissed with anger, spattering her with blood from his ruptured lungs and torn throat. “You cannot give me back my life, woman.”

  This was overdoing it. There was more than one way to handle him and Gill chose one. She’d tried “polite”; now she went for “bitch.” Feeling the first stirrings of anger, she affixed him with green eyes that were as cold as his
aura when she replied.

  “No, I can’t, but what I can do, you dumb son of a bitch, is help you over your issues so you can be a nice Ghost instead of a grotesque, drippy, bleeding one with a pissy attitude.”

  Her nose wrinkled in open disgust as the royal blue velvet of his tunic and pants grew dark and wet with the continual out-pouring of body fluids.

  The long-dead swordsman stared at her incredulously. “What are you, signorina, that you come into my hall and insult me?”

  “I am a Paramortal psychologist. The owners of this house hired me to help you with your pain, Dante, if you will accept my help. It is up to you. If you refuse, then I will leave and not bother you again.”

  Gillian concentrated on the odor of the sandalwood and willow and pushed her nausea firmly back. She prayed that Dante would have something of value to contribute to the general information pool. This was so not worth it otherwise.

  Dante regarded her. He could tell she was shaking with terror, but she didn’t run. In fact, she was angry. Angry enough to fight him. It was so ludicrous that he laughed, spraying blood from his torn throat again and completely grossing Gillian out.

  “Goddammit, stop it!! I know the blood will vanish when you do, but that is just fucking disgusting!” She rose from the chair and turned away. Even she could only take so much.

  A low, lovely, melodious voice accented with Italian answered her. “My apologies, caressima. I have been rude.”

  Gillian spun at the change in his vocal intonation to face an amazingly attractive man who was now free from blood, injuries and spatter. Even the hallway was clean. Looking down at her boots and clothing, she saw they were clean too. Even the blood smell was gone, leaving the sandalwood and willow wafting through the hall.

  “Well, thank you very much. Yes, you were rude, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I am still here to help you.” She glared at him.

  The Ghost, fully solid for the moment, reached out and took her hand. It took all of Gillian’s nerve not to jerk back from the icy touch. He leaned over it, his eyes locked with hers and brushed his lips across her knuckles. His breath was warm. She did jerk back then. What. The. Hell?!

  “You’re not a Ghost. Ghosts can’t touch, and they sure don’t have warm breath,” she snapped accusingly.

  “I assure you, signorina, that I am a Ghost. There are a great many things that the living do not realize about the dead.”

  His clear blue eyes sparkled at her and a boyish grin lit his face.

  “Isn’t that special,” Gillian groused. “Now do you want to hear about how I can help you or not?”

  Were all the men in this country advertisements for Lust Is Us? This was ridiculous. Dante wasn’t even Romanian, but he was a stunning advertisement for wet-pantie syndrome.

  “Please sit back down, cara. I will listen to what you have to say.” He leaned against the wall casually, one shoulder on the stones, folded his arms, crossed his legs and waited.

  Gillian explained to him that she was not there to perform an exorcism or to recommend one. Her purpose was to help the Ghost over whatever horror was holding him to Earth. Afterward, if he were better, he could stay or leave the castle as he liked. The owners didn’t object to him, per se; it was his terrorizing of the tourists they tried to attract to their bed-and-breakfast, and his frequent bleeding everywhere.

  Dante listened carefully. It was an intriguing thought. He hadn’t liked dying, and he could imagine that “up” was not the destination he would be headed if he were ever truly exorcised. The more Gillian spoke, the more impressed he was with her.

  She was pretty and intelligent; finding out she was a former soldier only added to her charm. She’d questioned him about his favorite sword and he’d asked her why she wanted to know. Gillian had explained about the Marine Corps, being a Captain, being on the fencing team in college. Dante offered to spar with her, in complete seriousness. It was just goofy enough of an idea to make her smile.

  When she smiled, Dante was smitten. He was overcome as her face transformed from merely pretty to lovely when her lips turned up in a genuine grin. Even to his jaded eyes, the transformation was amazing.

  Now that she had his undivided attention, Gillian got to work. Unconsciously adjusting her empathy, she became at once receptive to him and a calming, comforting presence. Feeling her extended warmth and acceptance, Dante had to admit that she was skilled at her profession. Once he had relaxed into the feelings she brought out in him, he found himself telling her things about his life that he’d never shared with anyone.

  He’d enjoyed being a rake, never committing to anyone or any particular cause. Being an expert swordsman, being in demand, being popular, pleased him immensely. That was why his murder was more than a shock to him. Nowhere had he ever encountered animosity no matter whose side he had fought on. With natural charisma and charm in abundance, Dante easily compensated for the bad or harsh feelings his duels produced. Winning over enemies as easily as he won over friends, he couldn’t imagine why someone would want to kill him, especially in such an unchivalrous, dishonorable manner.

  Gillian listened intently, interjecting when needed, asking him gentle questions at first, then intensifying the exchange and focusing on the pain and betrayal he had felt. She dialed up the comfort, keeping him in an emotional cradle where he could feel safe during his disclosure to her.

  A natural empath, Gillian was tapping into the whorl of emotions Dante was emanating. Carefully compartmentalizing his emotions from her own as she’d done all her life, the level of his anguish was truly shattering. Perhaps his emotions being able to simmer for six hundred years intensified them. Gill hadn’t met too many individuals, Paramortal or not, with this level of emotional turmoil. Finally, she called a halt.

  Dante looked at her, surprised. “So soon, Doctor?”

  She smiled gently. “It’s been over three hours, Dante. That’s more than enough time for the first session.”

  Rising she gathered her things, turning back to the Ghost and offering her hand. “I’m glad we were able to work this out. I will be back in a couple days to continue. May I send word through the Boganskaya family?”

  Dante took her hand and bent over it formally, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Of course, my lady.” His voice shifted into a timbre that was as warm as his breath. Gillian’s eyebrows rose.

  “Dante…Signore Montefiore, please remember this is a professional relationship. I can’t help you if you take a personal interest in me.” The edge in her voice made him pay attention.

  “I will remember, signorina. Even if it is difficult in more ways than one.” He backed away from her slowly, still smiling beautifully, and melted into the wall.

  Gillian went down to find Arkady Boganskaya and report to him that Dante was willing to cooperate. Arkady was more than pleased and immediately wrote her a sizable check. Gillian tried to dissuade him but he insisted.

  “No, signora, it is worth every penny if the swordsman can be a proper house Ghost—a little fright to visitors is fine, but making them run screaming from my household is not. If you can help him to be content, it will all be worth it.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  D RIVING back to the cottage, Gillian was turning over Dante’s potential knowledge base in her mind. Allowing herself time to ruminate over each case was a habit with her whether or not she was working as a field operative. It was too soon to find out how much he might know about the regional Vampire volatility. This had been a session to establish her credibility with him, to make him at ease with her, hopefully setting the stage for further information gathering and to honestly help him with his problem.

  Ethically she couldn’t do any less, nor would she want to. She was legitimately a licensed psychologist and enjoyed that part of her career as much as being a special operative for the Marine Corps. Having Paramortal clients made her job more interesting. They were never typical and she often needed the extra reflection to sort thi
ngs out. As distracted as she was, she didn’t notice the shadows in the backseat of her car, moving, undulating.

  The cool fingers that caressed her neck nearly caused her to skid off the road as she hammered the brake, jerking the wheel hard to throw “it” off of her. After some fancy maneuvering that the vehicle was never meant to execute, the car slid to a stop as she leaped out. The engine was still running, but she’d shoved the gear shift into neutral and yanked the emergency brake on. Instantly, she was grabbed and spun around to face a monstrosity. The Vampire had her by her shoulder and her throat, his dark eyes inches from her own, black hair falling over his shoulders like obsidian sheets.

  Gillian gasped. He was handsome, of course. Most Vampires were breathtaking. He’d have been perfect, if you didn’t count the horrible scarring visible on his throat, jaw and chest where his antique shirt gaped open.

  Holy water. That or direct exposure to some other holy item was the only explanation for why a Vampire would permanently scar. Although his face had been spared, it would have been an agonizing injury. He’d had it thrown on him or applied to him from close range. Probably right before he ripped out the hapless person’s throat, she mused. Like what was about to happen to her if she wasn’t lucky.

  Gill leaned back reflexively, away from the gleaming fangs that snapped together an inch from her neck before he pulled back and smiled as her fingers tightened on the ruined skin of his throat.

  “Prince Dracula sends his regards, Dr. Key. Consider this a warning as to how vulnerable you really are.”

  He spoke in a hollow but oddly compelling voice, then abruptly released her, dissolving into mist and streaking away into the dark.

  Shaking, nearly in shock from her newest near-death experience, Gillian went to her knees in the deserted road, not caring at the moment that there might be more of them around; only that she was definitely a target. It was Dracula’s way to toy with people first, Aleksei had told her. If the order had been to kill her, she would be dead in her car right now, instead of kneeling on tarmac and trying not to cry. Furious, trembling from her own sudden unaccustomed vulnerability, she waited until she had herself firmly under control before reentering the vehicle and driving back to the cottage.