Page 21 of Nothing Watching

Their first strong lead, a man who checked so many boxes, had gotten them nowhere. They were all the way back to square one. And worse still, it was getting dark already.

With a shock, Juliette saw that it was after seven p.m. The city was winding down for the night. Offices were closing. People were heading home, or else heading out.

And the killer was there, she knew it. Waiting and watching and ready to take his next victim. They were not fast enough. At the beginning of the day, she’d had such high hopes that they could track him down, but time had bled away from them and now, here they were.

She had a cold feeling inside. A terrible feeling that tonight, no matter what they did, he was going to make his move, and another life would be lost.

Heavy hearted as she headed down the clanging, damp-smelling stairs, it took her a moment to realize her phone was ringing.

Quickly, she hauled it out of her jacket pocket and took a look.

The number was Germany, but the city code was unfamiliar until, with a jolt, she realized it was Munich.

This was the number she’d dialed this morning—what felt like a lifetime ago.

The receptionist at the newly refurbished Hotel Kompfort, where her father had died, was calling her back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The night. A time of excitement, a time of adventure, when dreams became reality, when poetry became more than words, when stories solidified into adventurous reality.

In the night, he knew, he became a different person. Everything seemed to darken and narrow. It was strange, but it gave him an understanding of the vampires, the legendary creatures of the night, who were nothing during the day, and whose strength soared as the shadows fell.

They were falling now, and he was prowling. Clean shaven, the evening air cool on his skin, which still bore a trace of the perfumed products from the barber shop, astringent and herbal smelling, but leaving it feeling soft and soothed.

It felt as if the years were peeling back with every step he took.

Not just his years, but the eons of time. He felt as if Berlin itself was changing, the modern veneer of the city disintegrating, and even the cold war years dissolving as if they’d been no more than a temporary blemish on the city’s enduring structure.

His mind was casting all the way back to centuries ago. That was the time that was calling him now.

The time of kings and knights, of battles and conquests. He felt the pull of history, the weight of it, and he knew that he could not resist it. Not tonight. He felt a pull, a magnetic force that drew him toward the past, toward a time of bloodshed and violence, but also of power and glory.

It was the time when battles were fought and won, and the spoils of war were taken with pride. Where works of genius were created by those who had the time, and the dedication, to write them painstakingly, page by page. And legends had been written, legends that had survived until today. He’d read them intently and it felt as if every word had been seared into his brain.

He could do more, he knew he could. He just needed to channel the strength and inspiration of the city’s roots.

It was as if he could feel the heartbeat of the old city under the new, hear the sharp beats of horses’ hooves instead of the rattle of tires, see the glow of candles in the windows replacing the harsh, flat, electrical light.

Time was drawing him back, enfolding him, and now the normal day he’d had seemed like no more than a dream.

He walked with a purpose, his mind focused on his next move. He knew what he was looking for, and he knew where to find it. His eyes scanned the streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the city at night. The neon lights of bars and clubs pulsed in time to the music that spilled out onto the streets, mixing with the chatter and laughter of the people who passed by.

But he wasn’t looking for a modern person. So many of the men and women he passed were rooted in the modern day and he could tell, instinctively, they had no ties to earlier times.

He was looking for that one who did. He was looking for the connection, the woman who straddled two worlds, just as he did, and he knew how he would know her.

The bright blond hair was the giveaway, the beacon that caught his eye. Then, looking beyond it, he would seek out the ethereal beauty that he knew was waiting for him to find it. Pure features, even and classical, a face that might appear in a historical volume, in a centuries-old depiction of a timeless tale.

He was seeking someone who would have inspired the description of Iseult. His Frejya, the goddess of love and beauty, his Eve.

Blond hair had always retained the romance and glamour, as well as the forbidden cachet of being rebellious and provocative. To him, such hair was spilled sunlight, liquid gold.

And as for its owner? She was the sun, the light personified. She represented the beams of glory, the brightness that dispelled the shadows.

Once he had taken in the bright hair, the pale porcelain skin, and the bone structure that told him this woman was the one, then it only remained to look into her eyes, to find the muse that would allow him to succeed.

Twice now he had done that, and twice, he’d realized, heartbreakingly, that he was wrong, that he’d misjudged.

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