by a margin of seasons struck her as tragic.
When had he died? How had he lived?
One thing was clear: He had great taste. Great style. And he obviously liked the finer things. Her father's vast private space was resplendent. The walls were a deep red that set off another spectacular collection of Hudson River School landscapes set in gilt frames. The floor was covered with blue, red, and gold Oriental rugs that glowed like stained glass. But the bed was the most magnificent thing in the room. It was a massive, hand-carved antique with dark red velvet drapes hanging from a canopy. On the bedside table to the left, there was a lamp and yet another picture of her. On the right, there was a clock, a book, and a glass.
He'd slept on that side.
She went over and picked up the hardcover. It was in French. Underneath the book there was a magazine. Forbes.
She put them back and then looked at the glass. There was still an inch of water in it.
Either someone was sleeping here… or her father had died very recently.
She looked around, searching for clothes or a suitcase that would suggest a guest. The mahogany desk across the room caught her eye. She went over and sat in its thronelike chair, getting swamped by carved arms. Next to the leather blotter there was a small stack of papers. They were bills for the house. Electric. Phone. Cable. All in Fritz's name.
So… normal. She had the same things on her desk.
Beth eyed the glass on the bedside table.
His life had been abruptly interrupted, she thought.
Feeling like an interloper, but unable to resist, she pulled open the shallow drawer under the desktop. Montblanc pens, binder clips, a stapler. She slid it back into place, then reached down and looked into a larger drawer. It was full of files. She picked one out. They were financial records—
Holy shit . Her father was loaded. Really loaded.
She glanced at another page. As in millions and millions and millions loaded.
She put the file back and shut the drawer.
Certainly explained the house. The art: The car. The butler.
Next to a phone there was a picture of her in a silver frame. She picked it up, trying to imagine him looking at it.
Where was a photo of him? she wondered.
Could you even take a photograph of a vampire?
She went around the room again, looking in each of the frames. Just her. Just her. Just…
Beth bent down.
And with a shaky hand reached out for a gold frame.
Inside was a black-and-white picture of a dark-haired woman looking shyly into the camera. Her hand was on her face, as if she were embarassed.
Those eyes, Beth thought with wonder. She'd been staring at an identical pair in the mirror every day of her life.
Her mother.
She brushed her forefinger down the glass.
Sitting blindly on the bed, she brought the picture as close as her eyes would bear without her vision blurring. As if proximity to the image would close the distance of time and circumstance, bringing her to the lovely woman in the frame.
Her mother.
Black Dagger Brotherhood 1 - Dark Lover
Chapter Twenty-eight
This was more like it , Mr. X thought as he humped an unconscious civilian vampire up onto his shoulder. He carried the male quickly through the alley, opened the back of the mini-van, and laid his prey down like a sack of potatoes. He was careful to tuck a black wool blanket over his cargo.
He knew his procurement system would work, and upgrading the strength of the tranquilizer from Demosedan to Acepromazine had made the difference. His instinct of using horse tranqs instead of sedatives calibrated for humans had been correct. The vampire had still required two darts of the Acepro before he went down.
Mr. X looked over his shoulder before getting behind the wheel. The prostitute he'd killed was lying across a storm drain, her heroin-saturated blood seeping into the sewage system. The dear girl had even helped him with the needle. Of course, she hadn't been expecting 100 percent pure H.
Or having enough of it pumped into her vein to put a moose into a deep nod.
The police would find her by morning, but he'd been very neat, just like before. Latex gloves. Hat pulled down over his hair. Densely woven nylon clothes that should leave no fibers.
And God knew, she hadn't struggled at all.
Mr. X calmly started the engine and eased out onto Trade Street.
A fine shine of anticipatory sweat broke out above his upper