9

By unspoken agreement, Garreth and Harry banged into the house tossing one­liners at each other . . . despite a ride home in strained silence. The effort was wasted, though. The tightness of Lien's face told Garreth that she already suspected something had gone terribly wrong between them.

She made no attempt at light conversation, either, just gave each a fierce hug and said, "Your tea is in the family room. Don't bother to help me set the table. Sit down and relax."

They sat down and reached for the teacups in silence. Lien must have had a bad day, too, Garreth reflected. She had forgotten to put rum in his tea, though he smelled it in the steam off Harry's tea. Not that he minded. Now he could actually drink the tea. The warm liquid eased the edge on his hunger, if not the knots of misery in his stomach.

True to her word, Lien reappeared in less than five minutes. "Dinner's ready. But, Garreth, dear, I hope you won't mind that I've put yours in the kitchen. I need to talk to my husband alone."

That was fine, except for the scent of shrimp fried rice filling the kitchen, making him simultaneously ache with longing for some and nauseated at the thought of it lying in his stomach. But both longing and nausea vanished abruptly seeing what Lien had set out on the counter for him. Nothing but his thermos and a tall pewter tankard. And a note: There's no point giving you a regular serving which you'll just leave untouched on the plate. Go ahead and have what you will eat.

He sat down hard on a stool. Lien had written him many notes over the years, but never one that brusque.

He filled the tankard from the thermos and sat sipping the blood, but it tasted sour as dead blood. Lien had tired of him snubbing her cooking. Harry no longer trusted him and along with Serruto thought he had killed Holle, Maruska, and the Count. His bridge had blown up indeed. Nothing remained of it.

There were other bridges, though. The voice on Christopher Stroda's suicide tape played back in his head: "I'm about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. If my body is found, please cremate it and scatter the ashes. I want nothing left of me. Mom, Dad, please forgive me for doing this to you. I know it's going to hurt you and spoil Christmas . . . but I can't face another family mob scene . . . all that gaiety and togetherness . . . and food. What I'm doing isn't your fault. It's no one's fault, not even Melina's. All she wanted was to save my life. But it's trapped me on the other side of a chasm from everyone I love, with no way to ever rejoin you, and I can't bear the loneliness. Goodbye."

Garreth swirled the blood in the tankard. Maybe Stroda was right. The price of forever was too high. Even Lane dreaded the loneliness. How many vampires secretly welcomed the stake even as they screamed at the pain? How many, like Stroda, committed suicide? Nothing about Bodenhausen's death suggested anything except an accident, but had Corinne Barlow accidentally swerved into the oncoming traffic, controlled by reflexes schooled to driving on the lefthand side of the road, or was it a deliberate act of self destruction?

Lien banged through the swinging door from the dining room and dumped a load of dishes on the sink. "That man! He's obviously in anguish, but he won't talk to me and he won't hear anything I have to say."

Garreth tensed. Would she ask him what was going on?

"No, I won't try to pry out of you what's wrong. That would only aggravate things, I'm sure."

He started, staring at her.

She smiled and reached out to pat his arm. "Don't look so panic stricken. I'm not reading minds, just the expression on your face." She turned back to the sink, reaching for the faucets. "Of course, if you want someone to talk to, I'm always here."

"I know. Thank you." Like Stroda's family, she wanted so much to help, never realizing that the problem lay beyond even her compassionate understanding. He changed the subject. "Did Harry show you the book Fowler gave him?"

"Yes. That he would talk about. You have one, too?"

He nodded, then faked a yawn. "I'm bushed. I think I'll go on to bed. Say goodnight to Harry for me."

In his room, he locked the door and stretched out on the bed with Fowler's book. It would pass the time until Harry and Lien went to bed.

It would have, that is, if he had been able to concentrate. He could not. Stroda's tape replayed in his head over and over. No matter how many times he read the print before him, all Garreth saw was a tortured figure arcing off the Golden Gate bridge in a parody of a swan dive. After an hour all he could really say about the book was that Fowler had written a very accurate description of a second-story burglary. The man obviously did his research.

Then a new character appeared, a woman . . . tall, red-haired, fascinating. Goosebumps rose on Garreth's neck and arms. Maybe Fowler had another image in mind, but Garreth could only think: Lane.

From Lane his thoughts jumped to Irina. Where was she? Planning another murder?

A rap sounded on the door. "Garreth?"

Harry's voice. Slowly, Garreth went over to the door and opened it. His stomach dropped. What was wrong now? He had never seen Harry look so acutely embarrassed before. "What's—" he began, and broke off.

One glance at Harry's hand answered the question. He carried a key. Holding it up, he said, "I—I just wondered if you needed to use the bathroom anymore because—damn it, Garreth, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to lock you in."

That was how thoroughly trust had been destroyed. Numb, Garreth spoke across the bottomless, bridgeless gulf between them and marveled at how casual he managed to sound. "I understand. Go ahead. See you in the morning."

He closed the door.

The lock clicked.

The sound cut like a knife through his control. Garreth hurled the book across the room and smashed a fist down on the bureau. The wallet/pocketchange caddy on top hopped with the force of the blow. "Irina, you bitch, damn you! Damn you!"

If he had had any doubts about what he planned to do tonight, they had vanished. To hell with the warnings from I Ching and his grandmother. He had to find Irina, for his own satisfaction as well preventing another murder. Even if it meant dying. Better him than a fourth innocent person, and tonight death seemed less something to be feared than welcomed anyway.