Keeper of the Dawn

“She’s fine. She—she changed.”

“Changed clothes? Changed religions? Political parties? What do you mean, she changed? ”

Brodie turned to stare at him. “Apparently she was talking to Merlin and became very upset. When she did, she suddenly grew a foot taller and looked like an angry giant—Merlin’s words, according to Rhiannon. Anyway, they discovered a birthmark on her foot.”

“What?” Mark demanded. Keepers were born with birthmarks. “The woman is Elven. I’ve never seen anyone who looks so Elven in my whole life.”

Brodie nodded. “I know, but...she’s mixed.”

“She can’t be,” Mark argued. “It was forbidden until this generation. The Others barely got along with each breed, which is surely why the Ultimate Power—God, if you want—created Keepers. We Others can be nasty bloodthirsty monsters when we’re not kept in check.”

“So can human beings,” Brodie reminded him. “Anyway, Alessande never knew her real father, because he died when she was a baby. Her mother remarried, and then her mother and her stepfather died—”

“I know that. And I’m sure that’s why she feels so responsible for Regina,” Mark said.

“The point is, she didn’t know her father. And the evidence says he must have been a shifter Keeper.”

Mark mulled that over. “She won’t know what she’s doing,” he said quietly. “This could mean even more trouble for her.”

“A Keeper’s job is trouble,” Brodie reminded him.

“But she’s not a Keeper—yet. Not really. A Keeper is assigned to a certain area. Rhiannon is the Keeper of —”

“The canyon, yes,” Brodie finished for him. “But there are all kinds of areas around L.A. where she might belong. Or maybe she’s meant to be somewhere else altogether. Only time will tell.”

This isn’t good; it isn’t good at all, Mark thought. The woman is already headstrong and...

“Let’s get through this, then we’ll head back to the House of the Rising Sun,” Brodie said.

He pulled the car into the Hildegard drive and announced the two of them into the guardhouse speaker. A moment later the giant iron gates swung open. They navigated the long drive and parked in front of the house.

Mark stared up at the facade. It was a fitting home for a line of illusionists—and shapeshifters. It was like Cinderella’s castle gone over to the dark side. Giant gargoyles sat guard above the porch and window ledges.

The day itself seemed to darken as they rang the bell.

A butler admitted them.

Human, Mark thought.

They were led down a dark hallway with ancient chandeliers and stands with armor from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries. A doorway led to the study where Alan Hildegard was waiting to speak with them.

He seemed to be a surprisingly small man, but then Brodie was Elven and six foot four, and Mark, though a vampire, was his equal in height.

Mark had known the Hildegard name most of his life. His mother had been a working character actress, and she still emerged from her Arizona retirement now and then to play someone’s mother or grandmother. He’d grown up hearing about the famous inhabitants of L.A.

He knew all the legends about old Sebastian Hildegard. He’d just never had occasion to be at the Hildegard estate or meet the current generation.

Alan Hildegard did not fit the house, and not only because he was slight. He was in a navy blue suit that made him look like a stockbroker. He was about five foot eleven and had sandy hair. While his clothing gave him the appearance of a businessman, his casual haircut and deep tan made him look like a surf bum gone Wall Street.

Shapeshifter, most likely, Mark presumed, given the Hildegard lineage.

“Good to see you—I’ve been waiting for L.A.’s finest,” he told them, offering his hand to each man in turn.

“Yes, thank you for seeing us,” Mark told him. “I’m Detective Mark Valiente, and this is Detective Brodie McKay.”

“Can I get you gentlemen something? I realize you’re on duty, so...coffee? Water? A soda?”

“I could definitely go for coffee,” Brodie said.

“Sure. Have a seat. I’ll call Jimmy, and he’ll take care of us,” Hildegard told them.

He indicated a group of chairs arranged on three sides of a lion-legged coffee table that faced a giant tiled and marble hearth. They sat while Hildegard moved to a phone on a side table and spoke with Jimmy.

Then, flipping the tails of his jacket, Hildegard joined them.

“I understand that a group of...thugs has been using my family tomb for some brand of cult nonsense,” he said, irritated. “And that you two broke them up and got them the hell out of there—something for which I’m eternally grateful. I can’t believe that the family sold off the cemetery—before my time, I assure you. It’s disgraceful.”

“We caught a number of people—but, sad to say, none of them were the ringleaders,” Mark said. “They claimed there wasn’t going to be a sacrifice, that—”

“I don’t care! Charge them with trespassing. With desecrating a grave,” Hildegard said impatiently. “I want them jailed. We may not own the cemetery any longer, but we have a contract that guarantees perpetual care of the family vault.”

“Mr. Hildegard—” Mark began.

“Vampire, right?” Hildegard demanded suddenly.

“Yes.”

“And Elven?” he asked, turning to Brodie.

“Yes,” Brodie told him.

“At least this time I don’t have to mess with idiot human beings who have no idea what they’re up against with some of these—creatures!”

“A werewolf runs our robbery homicide division,” Brodie told him.

“Yeah, I talked to him today. I was impressed,” Hildegard said.

“All right, well, we don’t mean to be offensive in any way,” Mark said, “but, you understand, we have to ask you some questions.”

“Me?” Hildegard didn’t appear to be offended, just surprised. “I certainly wasn’t there when my family’s vault was being so shamefully used.”

“I understand that,” Mark said. “But it’s become clear that someone out there is making use of your great- grandfather’s legend. They’ve put together some kind of cross-species blood cult—there were human beings, shapeshifters, vampires... We’re not sure just how many Other races were involved.”

“They worship Sebastian Hildegard’s memory and are convinced they can raise him from the grave to be some kind of god,” Brodie said.

“Trust me,” Hildegard said, and he grinned, “I’m not behind any faction that wants to make a god out of my great-grandfather. I like being the head of the family.”

“You are in the magic business, aren’t you?” Brodie asked.

Hildegard laughed at that. “No—or rather, only in the typical Hollywood sense. I’m a producer. I put together packages for that new cable channel—Horrific. They’ve just started airing original movies, although we’re still pulling cheapies from the studio vaults, mostly.” He gave them a wry look that made his opinion of those cheapies quite clear. “Next original—Slasher and the Sleaze. Thing is, you can make those pictures ridiculously cheaply, and they sell like hotcakes on DVD all around the world.”

“So, these movies you’re producing,” Brodie said, “are you using the old family studio at all?”

Alan Hildegard’s features tightened as if he’d just been attacked by a sudden jolt of extreme indigestion.

“As you know, the fate of the studio is still in dispute,” he said angrily. “It’s the land I want. Nothing on those old soundstages is worth two cents. The equipment is older than Moses. No, Horrific has brand-new, state-of- the-art soundstages in Universal City. And I don’t really like hanging around the studio all day anyway. I’m a