Keeper of the Dawn

Alessande wasn’t all that fond of the Snake Pit—it was mainly an after-hours place for Others to hang out without worrying about letting their true nature slip, and she hadn’t been particularly social for many years. She attended all the Elven councils, of course, but only because she didn’t feel she really had a choice. She had been there when Sailor, as a newly minted Elven Keeper, had faced and defeated the Celebrity Virus, but her involvement had been accidental rather than intentional.

For so long she’d been happy in the background, using her skill with potions to help her fellow Others—and even humans—live happier and healthier lives. Staying in her own little world had been easy.

“There’s Barrie,” Sailor said. “We should go join her.”

Just then they heard a smattering of applause. Alessande looked over to see that Rhiannon had entered the room wearing a medieval gown. It suited her. She carried her guitar and took up a position on the bar’s small stage. Alessande saw Declan and Mick join Barrie at the table, talking casually to each other, but she didn’t think for a minute that they were as nonchalant as they appeared.

“Welcome to the House of Illusion,” Rhiannon said. “The real show will begin soon, but in the meantime...”

She began to sing as Alessande followed Sailor to join Barrie and the others.

“We’ve seen him. He’s here,” Barrie said excitedly as soon as they were seated.

“Who?” Alessande asked.

“Greg Swayze! The man who wrote Death in the Bowery.”

* * *

Mark was getting tired of chasing down suspected criminals. Why couldn’t they just stop and wait like civilized human beings once it was clear there was no escape? He could, of course, call on his vampire speed, but that would attract attention. Even so, he might have to resort to that, because this perp could run like a son of a gun.

The human had knocked over trash cans and newspaper stands and anything he could find along the way, forcing Mark to hop, veer and twist in an effort to catch up.

Screw it.

He went into vamp mode and stopped ten feet in front of his suspect. The man saw him, and his eyes widened, but he was too close to stop and slammed straight into Mark. With considerable effort, Mark kept them both upright, and he instantly spun the man around and cuffed him.

“Hey!” his prisoner protested. “You can’t do this! Am I under arrest? You haven’t read me my rights.”

“I can do this—for resisting arrest if nothing else.”

“But—”

Mark sighed and read the man his rights, then informed him that he was under arrest for battery.

“Battery? I didn’t hurt anyone. I mean yeah, we were arguing, but just normal boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. I —”

“That young woman you were with is half dead, thanks to whatever drug you gave her.”

“Hey, I didn’t make her take anything.”

“We’ll have to ask her that, won’t we?”

“You have to prove—”

“I don’t have to prove anything until you’re arraigned,” Mark said. “Let’s go. I’d like to get back to the fine hotel where you were taking the lady to ‘rest.’”

The guy’s shoulders slumped as all the fight went out of him, and he went peacefully.

At the hotel, Mark found that an ambulance had already arrived and the young woman was on her way to the hospital. And Brodie briefed Mark on the rest to bring him current on this case. Brodie had called in the situation to Lieutenant Edwards next.

Then the girl had roused long enough to tell Brodie that her name was Chelsea Rose. She was a local, a hostess at an upscale restaurant in Beverly Hills and an acting hopeful. Thereafter she had lapsed back into unconsciousness and he’d called her parents, who would be meeting her at the hospital.

The prisoner was Terry Steiner; by the time they had him in the car to bring him to the station, he was talking a blue streak.

“Look, I just heard about this stuff—they said it was better than Ecstasy. You find a girl, and she’s yours. I’m crazy about Chelsea—I’d never hurt her. I’ve used every cent I’ve made to go to that lousy high-priced rip-off joint where she works just to see her. I talked her into an adventure today once she was done with her shift. We bought the stuff—hell, neither one of us knew it was going to knock her out!”

“Where did you get it?” Mark demanded. The kid was no Other; he had no special powers. His story rang true. “And where did you hear about it?”

“Man, everyone’s heard about it,” Steiner said. “But finding someone who knows where to get it... I was at a club, and I heard some guys next to me saying you could buy it on the street.”

“On the street where?” Brodie asked.

He gave them the address. Mark and Brodie looked at one another.

Terry Steiner had bought the drug just around the corner from the Snake Pit.

* * *

“How can we manage to talk to him?” Barrie asked thoughtfully.

Alessande smiled. Barrie was an investigative reporter, one of the best in the city. But because she was such a good reporter, she overthought things at times. “I know how,” she said. “Where is he?”

“To the left of the stage, and he’s totally into Rhiannon.”

Alessande looked in the direction Barrie had pointed out.

Greg Swayze appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was dark, cut short, with a lock that fell over his forehead. He was seated, so she couldn’t judge his height, but he had a medium build and looked very fit.

“It’s easy,” Alessande said, smiling. “Watch and learn.” She made her way between tables until she reached his. There was room next to him on the bench, so she sat down. He was so entranced by Rhiannon that he didn’t even notice her at first, so she tried to get a feel for him.

He wasn’t, she determined, any kind of Other. He was human.

At last he turned her way. “Well. Hello.”

“Hi,” Alessande said.

He smiled, and she called on her Elven talents, willing herself to be as seductive as possible. His smiled turned to a slight frown, and she wondered if he knew there were such things as Elven. Or maybe he just sensed something different about her.

She quickly read his mind. She didn’t get much.

I’d like to get this one in bed! Legs that stretch forever. And in damned good shape.

“You’re Greg Swayze,” she said.

He seemed startled that she knew, and he blinked and looked at her chest instead of her eyes. That was a problem for any woman of course, but especially so for Elven women. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met, no. But of course I know who you are.”

“You do? That’s interesting. Most people know actors and actresses. Actors and actresses know the top agents and producers and directors—and even casting agents. I’m just a writer. The bottom rung of the ladder. No one knows me.”

She smiled. “That’s not true. You’re not just any writer. You write a screenplay, and you hang on to it. You stick with the project. No one rewrites you a thousand times just so a new name can go on the credits. Producers and directors, not to mention actors and actresses, trust you.”

He laughed at that. “I had one success. One tremendous success, I admit. And that’s because I made a cheap movie that more or less went viral and made a fortune.”

“I loved it,” Alessande lied. She’d never even seen the thing.

“Ah! You’re an actress. I should have realized it, given the way you look. Obviously you want a part in my new film. Well, don’t worry. If they don’t cast you, call me and I’ll get you in somewhere. I’ll bet the camera loves you. What have you done?”

“Not much,” she admitted. “But I am going in to audition tomorrow. I’m waiting for