Dark Obsession. Amanda Stevens

smiling. Each death, each “kill,” would torment his nemesis as once the pain had tormented Drake. The kills would take everything away from his rival as Simone had been taken away from Drake. And he had found the perfect way to once and for all destroy his enemy. Nicholas Slade’s pathetic little crusade was about to come to an end.

      And so he would go out again tonight, in his new identity, to a club where others like him met. A place where he could see but not be seen. A place where the unsuspecting were so easily seduced by the darkness. He would go there because that was where Slade would be.

      Tonight his revenge would begin in earnest.

      Drake smiled as his hunger sharpened. He could hardly wait. “I’ll see you in hell, Slade,” he whispered.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Detective Nicholas Slade knelt and touched the dead woman’s chin. With his fingertip, he tilted her head, glanced at the bruise marring an otherwise flawless cheek, then let his gaze move downward to her neck.

      He studied her perfect features in the dim glow cast by a distant street lamp. She was a beautiful woman. Or had been, he corrected himself. Early twenties. Tall. Slender. Long black hair. And even though her eyes were closed, Slade knew they were blue. Deep, dark, soul-piercing blue.

      Megan Ramsey had been a knockout. A real heart-breaker.

      Abruptly Slade stood. From behind his sunglasses, he gazed down at the corpse, never taking his eyes off the body even when the other detective on the scene came up beside him.

      “Orders came down from the top, Slade. We had to call you.” There was a trace of resentment in Gabriel Abrams’s voice, but Slade ignored it. His involvement over the last eight years with a special task force set up by Commissioner Thomas Delaney had ruffled a lot of feathers within the New York City Police Department, due in large part to the veil of secrecy from under which the group operated.

      Code-named the Mission, the task force’s primary function was to investigate and eliminate the dark, evil elements that stalked the city’s streets—elements that most people thought only existed in their nightmares.

      Each member of the Mission had been carefully recruited over the years by Commissioner Delaney because of a special trait, ability or background that made him or her uniquely qualified to serve in the secret organization. The Mission’s ranks expanded far beyond the New York City Police Department, though. Slade had no idea who all the members were or where they had come from. He only knew what his own particular area of expertise was. And why.

      “You did the right thing,” he told Gabe. “Anyone else know about this?”

      “Just the two blues who were on the scene first.” Gabe’s breath frosted in the night air as he gazed down at the body. “Her name’s Megan Ramsey. An actress. We got a positive ID from her sister.”

      It would have been the perfect time to mention he already knew the victim’s name. It would have been the logical time to admit that he had seen Megan Ramsey just last night, that he had warned her to stay away from a club that attracted the dark side of the city, but he didn’t. Like so many others, she had refused to listen to him, and now she lay dead at his feet.

      Slade shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his long black coat. “Any witnesses?”

      “None that bothered to stick around.”

      Thank God for small favors, Slade thought. If the citizens of this city had even an inkling as to the real terrors out there in the darkness—

      He cut off his own thoughts as he nodded toward a stooped figure in a tan overcoat hovering around the fringes of the cordoned-off area. “Who’s the old guy?”

      “Name’s Traymore. Dr. Leonard Traymore. He’s a retired archaeologist doing some kind of research at NYU. He was a little vague on exactly what, though,” Gabe said dryly. “Says he heard a commotion and came out to investigate. He’s the one who called the station, but he claims he didn’t see a thing.” Gabe hesitated, then said in a low, anxious tone, “What the hell’s going on here, Slade?”

      “What do you mean?”

      Gabe stamped his feet, trying to keep warm as the wind sharpened. “Look at those marks on her neck. They look like some kind of a bite, but there’s no blood anywhere. No sign of a struggle.”

      Slade stared at Gabe from behind his sunglasses. “So what are you saying, Abrams? That we’ve got a crazed vampire on the loose?”

      “Hell, no. I’m saying we may have some crazed psycho on the loose who thinks he’s a vampire. Eighty-seventh had a werewolf last year, remember? Four bodies ripped apart in the park before the perp was apprehended. And the year before that, it was human sacrifices down by the river. The world is full of crazies, Slade. This guy’s a real Looney Tunes.”

      “What makes you so sure it’s a man?” Slade asked quietly.

      Gabe looked startled, then grinned irreverently. “I’ve met some bloodsucking women in my time—my ex-wife included—but nothing like this. No. This is a man’s job. Some crazy bastard getting his jollies. And by the looks of her, she didn’t put up much of a fuss.”

      Slade stared down at Megan Ramsey, seeing again the perfect, flawless creature at his feet. She wore a black beaded evening dress and silk stockings. One of her shoes had come off and lay several inches from the body. Leaves dotted her dark hair as artfully as if she’d arranged them there herself. The black lashes showed starkly against her white cheekbones, and her full red lips curved upward in a tiny secretive smile. If possible, she looked even more beautiful in death.

      A shudder ripped through Slade. He could almost hear the echo of Megan Ramsey’s laughter in the wind. Or was that Simone’s? “Kiss me, Nick. Just one last kiss…”

      “Has anyone else said anything about the marks on her neck?” he abruptly asked Gabe.

      “I don’t think so. The blues were too busy admiring her body. They’re used to winos and druggies who, shall we say, have already passed their prime when the Grim Reaper comes to call. They don’t get to see too many corpses that look like her.”

      “What a shame,” Slade remarked sarcastically. He raked his fingers through his short crop of hair, then looked around, uneasy. It was getting colder. Colder and foggier. In the distance, a siren sounded, but the tiny plot of backyard where they stood remained eerily silent. Deadly calm. Mist swirled over the beautiful corpse like a gossamer shroud.

      “The sister’s still hanging around if you want to talk to her,” Gabe suggested, nodding toward the steps of the apartment building. “She’s been here the whole time.”

      Slade had noticed the woman sitting on the back steps the moment he’d arrived. She wore jeans and some sort of flimsy-looking sweater, and he could see her shivering from cold and shock. She looked fragile, like a crystal figurine that could too easily be shattered.

      He tried to look away, but his gaze kept going back to her. The way she sat there, with her shoulders slumped and her hand clutching something to her chest, she looked so forlorn. So lost. Even from the distance across the yard, he could sense her grief, could almost touch it in the air between them. Like a dark and heavy cloak, it settled over them both, drawing them closer, binding them together against his will.

      “Her name’s Erin,” Gabe was saying. “Erin Ramsey.”

      Slade glanced up sharply. “The horror writer?”

      “Apparently. She’s the one who discovered the body. Just got in about an hour ago from L.A. Came looking for her sister and found her out here, like this. Some welcome party, huh?”

      “Have you talked to her?”

      “Briefly. She wasn’t in much shape to answer questions.”

      “Yeah, well, unfortunately, she doesn’t have a choice.”

      “Why