Althea's Reading Corner

Excerpt - Cursed at Dawn by Heather Graham

One

“I still don’t see how it was possible,” Della said. They had worked so hard, taken such risks, to 

arrest and in- carcerate Stephan Dante, the self-proclaimed “king of the vampires,” that it was 

unimaginable that he had managed to escape while awaiting trial.

They were headed back to the United States, ready to meet with the horrified warden of the jail where Dante had been awaiting trial. They were both exhausted but wired, as they hadn’t slept since they’d heard the news that the man was back on.

Just days after they’d finally caught up with one of his protégés—who had shed the concept of competing in the vampire field to become “king of the Rippers”— they had learned that Stephan Dante had somehow man- aged a miraculous escape. He had killed the doctor who had assumed he was desperately trying to save his life, sent the nurse to intensive care, where she remained, and had killed one guard and seriously wounded an- other on his way out. He’d walked easily into the sunlight, having taken the doctor’s clothing, identification and keys—and therefore, he had simply driven away. The most bizarre thing seemed to be that it was on tape, though Dante had managed—through a tech friend he’d met while incarcerated, Della believed—to create false images of the infirmary while he had carried out his attacks with a scalpel.

They hadn’t been “vampire” assaults and kills.

They had just been murders and attacks that had been expedient. He had his way of killing that he considered unique and special. But he was also a cold-blooded killer who would rid himself of anyone who got in his way by any means necessary.

“Dante continues to carry out the impossible.” Mason Carter, seated at her side in the FBI’s Blackbird plane that was rushing them back to the States, shook his head, staring straight ahead as he spoke. “He manages to befriend every criminal who can do something he wants done or provide something he needs. I’ve never seen a criminal as capable of accruing funds and forged documents in the way that he has managed.” He let out a sigh. “I’ve been conflicted on the death penalty all my life. You execute the wrong man—or woman—and you can’t fix it if you’re later proved wrong. You let a man like Dante live and…others have already paid the price.”

“He never made it to trial, Mason,” Della reminded him. “Mason, this is horrible, but it isn’t on us. And we will—”

“Get him again,” Mason said.

He was still staring straight ahead. She wasn’t worried about Mason as her partner—no inner conflict would interfere with his abilities as an investigator—or as a man to have at her back. He was adept at numerous martial arts, with a knife, and was also a crack shot who could move with incredible dexterity, speed and quiet when necessary. He had blue eyes that could appear as dark as the deep blue sea—or as piercing and cold as shafts of ice. It didn’t hurt that he was a dark-haired man who stood at a good six foot five, but as they all knew, a bullet or an explosive could kill, no matter your size or expertise.

He had told her once that a good agent’s mind was the greatest weapon they could carry.

She just worried about whatever torture he might be putting himself through. He’d been military before the FBI, been responsible for the apprehension of some of the country’s most heinous killers and seen his last partner gunned down before him. He had grown weary of killing and he’d been working solo until he and Della had met on a case in a Louisiana bayou, taking down a serial killer there before becoming the first chosen agents for Blackbird, a unique unit created to help when the very specialized assistance the Krewe of Hunters could give was needed in Europe.

They had worked with local law enforcement from Norway, Scotland, Ireland and France. Their liaison from Interpol, François Bisset, as well as French Detective Jeanne Lapierre, English Detective Inspector Edmund Taylor and Norseman Jon Wilhelm, would be joining them the next day.

Their sixsome had followed Dante, in one way or another, through France, Britain and Norway, then back to the States.

They’d all expected to be here; Adam and Jackson had set up a meeting for the group of them at Quantico, one to debrief and the other for a chance to discuss the future of their new unit—within the Krewe of Hunters.

Della wondered if Jackson and Adam knew things about their team that they didn’t know themselves. They had discovered that Edmund, a striking and formidable-looking man in his thirties, could converse with the dead. As always, very few among the spirit world chose to communicate with the living for their own reasons. But she didn’t know about Wilhelm, François or Jeanne. Law enforcement might often speak about protocol, especially within different countries, but in meeting people one seldom just asked bluntly if their fellows could see the dead.

They were back in the States. But with Stephan Dante on the loose, they could be heading anywhere in the world in the days to come.

“Mason, we can’t second-guess anything,” she said quietly. “We take oaths. And you and I both believe in standing up and honoring our oaths. We follow the law,” she reminded him.

He smiled and turned to her. “Of course. I just…I just thought that we were done worrying about him. And seriously? It was nice being tourists in London. For what? All of three days.”

She grinned back at him. “They were good days, though, right? They had to end because we were due back here anyway. And I talked to Jackson earlier. When we get Dante locked up again, we get a month, he promised.”

“Right. Unless something else happens,” Mason said.

She shook her head. “I know Jackson and Adam.

They’re busy building up Blackbird and in time, we won’t be the only American representatives.”

He nodded, pulling up his tablet. “Not sure if all this is the order in which it occurred, but this is still just… I don’t see how… All right, according to the reports, Dante was bleeding out so badly that it was assumed he wouldn’t make it. He wasn’t shackled to the bed because everyone thought he was all but dead. He caught hold of the scalpel when the doctor and the nurse were urging quick care, ordering blood for transfusions. People ran out of the infirmary, he downed the nurse and then the doctor and stole the doctor’s clothing, wallet and keys. Two guards walked in and he took care of them. He had apparently already gotten someone to somehow get him a fake MD’s identification and all the right certifications to slip into the doctor’s wallet. How the hell did he go from bleeding to death to slashing others and escaping in the blink of an eye?”

“Well, he isn’t a vampire,” Della said flatly. “The problem with Dante is that he doesn’t use force as much as he uses charm and wiles. He is extremely clever, an intelligent man. I believe that he’s one of those people who constantly studies online. And, of course, as we’ve known, he’s great at making friends among the killer elite.”

“Killers, forgers, bank robbers… I doubt if he bothers to befriend those who can’t do anything for him, but to others… I don’t understand. Then again, I still don’t understand how Jim Jones got nearly a thousand people to drink poisoned Kool-Aid. The power of the mind is incredible.”

“Beyond a doubt. We’ve said it before—people believe because they want to believe. They grasp on to concepts and ideas that work for them because they’re down and out, because they’re bitter or because they’re in pain. Some are too smart to be swayed, but I believe that our Mr. Dante recognizes those he can control and those he can’t—and he wastes no time on those who aren’t going to fulfill any of his needs.

“The power of the mind!” Della murmured, continuing. “I spoke with our friend and colleague Special Agent—Dr.—Patrick Law. He warned everyone that Dante might well pull something. They believed that they had him in control, that they had so much security that he couldn’t possibly escape.”

“They tried to save his life,” Mason murmured.

“They’re bound by their oaths, too, Mason. For those in law enforcement, oaths similar to those we took. And for a doctor…”

“I know. I know. The Hippocratic oath,” Mason said.

“No choice,” she reminded him.

“So, of course, we know that he’s out. We will learn more on the particulars of how he did it. But he is out—so his escape isn’t the question.”

Della nodded and looked out the window. They would be landing soon. She rested her head back against the comfort of her chair, wishing they’d managed to sleep.

Smiling grimly, she turned to Mason.

“He has escaped. He escaped in Louisiana and we know that he does love the bayou country, and who doesn’t love New Orleans? So he escaped here, but the main question remains,” she said quietly. “Just where will he strike next?” When a man managed to escape when he was known as high risk, he had to have had help, Mason believed.

While Della headed to the intensive care unit at the hospital to interview the nurse who had a slim chance of surviving the assault, he worked with the warden, a man named Roger Sewell, still in disbelief that such a thing could have happened.

“I’m sure you have already heard the particulars, but I’ll go over them again,” Sewell told him as they walked along the aisle where prisoners spent short incarcerations or awaited trial.

“It started in the cafeteria with the riot. Ridiculous thing, of course. No matter how hard anyone tries, there’s always a pecking order in a facility like this—you wind up with rival gangs within the walls themselves. Someone hit someone else in the face with a spoonful of grits. Then all hell broke out with food flying back and forth, crowd insanity followed, several guards were injured and Stephan Dante was found on the bottom of a pile of men with a blood pool the size of Texas under him. Naturally, we rushed him straight to the infirmary, calling the doctor, warning that the prisoner might exsanguinate within minutes.”

“You found him in a pool of blood,” Mason said. He imagined the scene—and why guards and a smart man might be fooled.

“With a toothbrush shank still in him.”

Warden Sewell was a serious man, known for having handled the facility in his charge with diligence, running a tight ship while recognizing human rights as known in the country and the state. His guards respected him; there had never been such a serious incident before during his tenure. He continued disgustedly with, “Food fights happen. Gang members gang up on a target and break his nose. But this food fight…ridiculous food fight…escalated into disaster.”

“It wasn’t a ridiculous food fight,” Mason told him, pausing along with the warden at the cell where Dante had so recently resided. “It was planned. And that pool of blood didn’t belong to Dante—some of the blood, sure. But you’re going to find that you have one or more other inmates who lost pools of blood in that fight.”

“Wait, you’re trying to tell me that Dante planned a food fight to escape? But he didn’t attack any of the guards, he didn’t—”

“He planned to get to the infirmary,” Mason told him. “Just as he found someone—someone here on a more minor charge—to rig it so that Dante’s assaults on the staff weren’t seen on the cameras. One of your prisoners is a damned good tech guy who breached the system.”

“No. That’s not possible—”

“Warden, I’m not throwing any stones here, trust me. This man has taken all of us in one way or another. But I doubt your guards were all asleep at the wheel. And when the police ran the security tapes, they saw nothing but a nurse moving back and forth across the infirmary. We know that Dante assaulted his caretakers. And the guards who then tried to stop him. And then—caught on camera—he used the dead doctor’s identity and clothing to escape. Oh, yes, Dante was shanked. But he’s a man who made sure that he drew blood without hitting any vital organs—”

“You think that he shanked himself?”

“I do. Or he had a friend hit him in just the right place in just the right way.”

“But the blood—”

“The ‘pool the size of Texas’ belonged to one or more other men. And a forensic crew would find DNA so mixed that it would be worthless. But, trust me, the entire escape was planned from the time the first spoonful of grits went flying,” Mason told him grimly.

“What do you need from me now?” Sewell asked him. “What the hell can I do now to help?”

“Interviews. I need to speak with anyone who was close to or friendly with Dante in any way.”

Sewell suggested, “Start with his cellmate?”

Mason nodded. “Have him brought to an interview room. I’ll observe him a few minutes before going in. What’s the man’s name and what is he in for?”

“Terry Donavan. His third DUI in a month involved a vehicular manslaughter charge.”

“Sounds like an alcoholic and not a cold-blooded killer. Interesting that he was in with Dante.”

“Overcrowding in the system, I’m afraid. Special Agent Patrick Law had suggested that we keep Dante in solitary and we were planning on moving Dante to follow the suggestion.” Sewell paused, wincing and shaking his head. “We were planning to do the right thing—just waiting on the move. We have some hardened folks here, awaiting their days in court. One man is accused of killing his entire family—for the life insurance payouts. Another in here is presumed guilty of five robbery/invasion homicides. Sometimes it’s hard as hell to see the forest for the trees.”

“Gotcha,” Mason assured him.

“Observation here,” Sewell said, stopping by a door. “Entry to the interrogation room just down a few steps.”

“All right. Tell the guards not to shackle the man. I’m going to have to build up some trust—get past whatever blind faith he might have in believing whatever lies Dante might have told him.”

“You think Terry Donavan might be involved? He’s… In my mind, the man is a pathetic waste of what he might have been. In here, he’s polite, agreeable and, so it appears, truly remorseful for what happened. Went through hell when he first came in—in fact, the doctor Dante killed helped get Terry through the worst of withdrawal when he came in here. If the kid—”

“Kid?”

“Sorry. He’s just twenty-three,” Sewell said.

“Right. If he’d had help and embraced it, he wouldn’t be where he is,” Mason said.

Sewell nodded. “Step on in. I’ll get Terry in there,” he said, pointing to the stark interrogation room.

“Would you mind seeing if you can arrange coffee and water for us both? Sounds like he’s the type who just might help if I can reach him.”

Sewell nodded. Mason stepped into the observation room and looked through the glass at the room with its simple table—equipped with attachments for shackles when necessary—and gray walls and flooring. That was it. The table, the walls, the floor. Planned for focus.

A minute later, he saw a guard bringing Terry Donavan in to sit. The man sat. But he wasn’t shackled and after he’d been left a few minutes, he began to pace the floor.

He did look like a kid. Short hair still showing something of a rakish and shaggy appearance, movements nervous, eyes caught in a concerned face as he walked the few feet within the room.

The guard returned with two cups of water and two cups of coffee. That seemed to perplex the young man even further.

Mason waited another few minutes. Then Terry Donavan sat again, looking suspiciously at his cup of coffee before sipping at it, then letting out a sigh as he apparently decided that it hadn’t been laced with any kind of poison.

Mason stepped out of the observation room, nodded to the guard and thanked him, and headed on in, taking the seat across from Terry Donavan.

Donavan looked at him nervously.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

“My name is Mason Carter,” Mason told him. “Special Agent Mason Carter. And I need your help.”

“You need help—from me?” Donavan asked nervously. He looked around the room as if afraid that someone might be watching him, might see him.

Guards were watching. But Donavan wasn’t afraid of the guards. He was afraid of the possibility that another prisoner might hear him.

Or maybe even Stephan Dante himself.

Mason nodded, leaning toward him, deciding to first use what he knew. “You know that your doctor is dead, right?” he asked quietly.

He saw the young man look down quickly and wince. The doctor had meant something to him. He had helped him.

“That had to be…an accident. I mean—”

“Terry, I know that you were in a cell with Stephan Dante. I know how mesmerizing and hypnotic the man is capable of being.”

“He never hypnotized me!” Donavan protested.

“Dante doesn’t sit you down in a chair and tell you to count backward while concentrating on a point,” Mason told him. “He charms you—the same way a dad might charm his child while telling a bedtime story. He talks and creates a new world. And it’s all right—trust me. Plenty of men and women have fallen for his stories, so well told. And you fell for him, too. If you help me, I can talk to the district attorney. It will help.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone—”

“I believe you. Addiction is a terrible disease. And the doctor who has now given up his life is the man who helped you through the agony and suffering of withdrawal.”

Terry looked down again, not wanting to face him.

“Why?” Mason asked very softly. “Did Dante promise that no one was going to be killed as he planned his escape?”

“If someone died, it was an accident—”

“It’s not an if. People died. And it wasn’t by accident, Terry. Stephan Dante killed the doctor and took his clothing and his wallet and his car to escape. Hard to do that if—”

“He was just going to knock him out. You know. Drugs. It’s an infirmary. They sedate people all the time—I mean, seriously, our infirmary is like a hospital setting!”

“You don’t sedate a man with a scalpel,” Mason said quietly.

Donavan looked down for a long moment, his thumbs moving nervously as his hands lay on the table. He shook his head.

“Terry!” Mason said. “Hey, I can tell. You are not a bad guy. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. Alcoholism is a disease, and it can take a hell of a lot to cure it. The doctor who finally led you on a path to relief—”

“Hey, I’m locked up awaiting trial where they’ll want to put me away forever,” Donavan said bleakly. “Had to get cured in here.”

“But it could have been a cruel cure. In fact, if withdrawal isn’t handled correctly at the level you were drinking, you could have been left to rot and die. But they did things here by the law—even using compassion where it fit. Dante killed the man who offered you every kindness and every ounce of compassion. How the hell can you still stand up for him?”

“I—I—I never thought the doctor would die! The doctor or anyone else. And you don’t understand,” Donavan told Mason, shaking his head. “And you must be blind. Don’t you see it? Stephan Dante tells the truth. He said that he’d be out. He said that it was easy to play the authorities when we all played together. He did it. And he’s coming back for me.”

“He’s coming back for you?” Mason asked.

“Yes! He will regain his power, all that was taken from him, and when he does have his power again, he’ll come back. And he’ll find us, wherever we are. He’ll come in glory and he’ll sweep us away to his place where his believers become immortal—”

“Oh, good God, Terry! You’ve had trouble, yes, but you don’t seem to be a stupid man. Seriously, you believe that?”

“He has already done what he said that he’d do!” Donavan reminded Mason.

Mason shook his head. “I just don’t understand you falling for a ridiculous theory. Do you believe that the Heaven’s Gate suicides jumped on spaceships to travel to a heavenly astral plane? You do believe that the earth is round, right?”

“Of course!”

“Terry, do you want to believe in something solid and real? I’m solid and real and right here and the FBI does have sway with the Justice Department. Let me show you something else that’s real.” He pulled out his phone and flipped to pictures of Dante’s victims. “They look beautiful, right? But I don’t believe that you meant to hurt anyone. And when Dante steals all their blood, Terry, they die. They are the beautiful dead who—as all living creatures—will now rot and decay. They are not buying anyone a ticket to vampire immortality. I can help you, Terry. Trust me. Stephan Dante has gotten what he wants from you. Oh, well, first he’s not going to turn into an immortal and he knows it. By the way, he trained Jesse Miller, who is no longer with us—having been tutored by Dante, but deciding the heck with vampires, he’d just become Jack the Ripper. An honest thing at least—he just liked the power of stealing life from others. That’s not you, Terry. Accept this—Dante is not coming back for you. He not only can’t help you, but if he could, he wouldn’t. You don’t offer him anything more than he needs. I know that you’re not a cold-blooded killer. So does he. You’ve no history of forging, and to the best of my knowledge, you’re not sitting on a multimillion-dollar haul anywhere. Help me—and I will help you.”

Terry stared at him a long time and then hung his head. “I… He didn’t say that I had to kill anyone. He said that my work here would be enough for me to gain my place with him.”

“He lied. He gave you a bold, all-out lie, Terry. And somewhere inside you, you know it. You wanted to believe in him. You wanted it so badly because it was better than the prospect of twenty years to life behind bars. Anything was better than that. You know, sometimes it starts with someone promising all good things. A truly equal society. That’s pretty much what Jim Jones promised his followers. Social justice. But what turned him on, what kept him moving forward at all times, was a desire for power. Dante doesn’t believe in the least that he’s going to be immortal. What he loves, what he craves, is power. He also loves the act of playing God—he loves killing. Terry, this is your chance to help me out.”

“Yes!” Donavan said, suddenly looking up at him. The man had tears in his eyes. “Yes, I will help you. I am so sorry. I—I was a wretched alcoholic. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but when I didn’t drink the shaking and the headaches got so bad, all until I was in here…all until the doctor… I…” He stopped speaking and looked Mason in the eye. “I will help you. I don’t know everything, but I will help you.”

“Libby Larson has two small children,” Alexandra—Alex—Beaufort told Della. “Her poor husband—he’s beside himself. I don’t think that Libby will be returning to work with prisoners, not after this! In this crazy day and age, the woman has a beautiful home life, people who truly love her, and now this…”

“She’s still touch and go?” Della asked.

“The doctors believe that she will make it. We were just fighting different situations. He hit her with a needle filled with sedation, stabbed her in the side—luckily missing major organs—and knocked her on the head with something…no one was even sure what he grabbed. But we’ve been giving her constant transfusions and, of course, done everything possible to clean out her system from the overdose of morphine. Such a good person!”

Della smiled and nodded at the young nurse speaking with her. “Did you know her before she came in after the attack?”

“I did. We went to nursing school together. She believed that everyone deserved a second chance. That human beings were basically good, and that…”

Her words trailed.

“I still believe, just like Libby, that most people are good,” Della told her ruefully. “It’s like anything—we hear the most about the bad. And sometimes we’re unfortunate enough to see it. But I’ve been at this awhile and I can tell you that most people are good and want to help when help is needed. We know about the bad—which I believe is the fringe—because the bad is always loud and makes us question all else. Anyway, sorry, I understand her—and understand if she doesn’t go back to work at the facility. I didn’t come to cause further problems—I don’t want to upset her any more but if possible, I would like to talk to her.”

“She wants to see you,” Alex said. “She heard the FBI had brought him in and she wants to help catch him again. Still…for her safety and well-being, five minutes?” Alex asked.

“Five minutes,” Della promised.

Libby Larson was in a private room. An IV ran fluids into her arm, while a tube in her nostrils provided oxygen.

Even in a hospital bed with tubes and wires all around her, Libby was a beautiful young woman. Her eyes were closed when Della entered the room, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Dante had been furious that he couldn’t tend to her as he did his victims—dressing her up to lie in “sleep” like a fairy-tale princess just waiting for true love’s kiss.

Her hair was dark black and swept across the whiteness of the hospital sheets. When she opened her eyes, they were an incredible deep brown.

“FBI?” she whispered.

Della nodded, smiling, drawing up a chair. “And so grateful to see you alive and on your way to recovery.”

“I knew who he was. And still…we thought he was going to die. The doctor… Oh, God, we were even discussing the fact that we were compelled to do everything we could to save life. He should have been dead! I was one of the medical personnel who rushed into the cafeteria when the guards had it under control and I saw the blood… He shouldn’t be alive! But he is, and Dr. Henson is dead and others and… I’m so sorry!”

“What happened?” Della asked. “Do you remember anything at all?”

“Yes. When Dante came in, naturally he wasn’t cuffed. I don’t remember exactly, but one of us figured he needed to be cuffed and the doctor went out to see the guards. Then I felt a stab, a little prick, and I was bleeding and then I think something hit me on the head but I barely even felt it…he was so fast. I—I don’t remember more!”

“Did he say anything at all?” Della asked. “We’re trying to ascertain where he might be heading.”

“No. Not a word. But…”

“But?”

“I’d seen him before,” she said softly. “Prisoners get vaccines, checkups. He was always so polite, friendly to those around him. And prisoners…talk. When they don’t think that others can hear them. He made friends with everyone in here—the worst of the worst.” She paused, wincing. “The only hard-core people he seemed to ignore were pedophiles—he had no interest in them.”

“To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t kill children,” Della said.

“How can a man appear to be so decent, polite, even charming and be such a monster? And I can’t help but feel that it’s partially my fault—”

“Never think that. Never. Saving lives is a beautiful thing. Trust me. Stephan Dante has fooled just about everyone he’s ever met. Don’t let him succeed. Don’t let him change you,” Della said softly.

“He whistled sometimes.”

“What did he whistle?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on the tune, but…”

“Yes?”

“It seemed as if he was taunting people with it. A lot of what I’m saying is hearsay. I only saw him a few times while he was incarcerated. I just…” Tears stung her eyes. “The doctor is dead. A guard… That man is a monster!”

“Thank you,” Della told her. “Thank you. And get better! Rest, get better.”

“I will. I have children and the dearest husband in the world. Do you have children?”

“No, I don’t. But I’ve heard yours are wonderful.”

“Little boy, little girl. And my husband! Are you married?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. That was rude—”

“No, it’s okay. There are people in my life who make it very precious, too.”

“Hold them close. Because we never know. We just never know.” She smiled weakly. “Ah, no children, but there is someone you love. I mean, besides your family!”

“Yes,” Della said, smiling in return. “There is someone very important in my life.”

“Make sure he knows! There were moments when I was semiconscious when I thought I might die, and I wondered what the last words were that I had said to my husband. And I was so glad… We’d been on the phone. He’d told me he could pick up the kids and I thanked him and I told him that I loved him. I was so glad to realize that! Well, happier that they think I’m going to be okay, but…tell people that you love them. Because none of us knows what our last words to anyone will be!”

“I will. I will remember your words. And thank you. Thank you again. I’m going to leave my card on your bedside table. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, will you have someone call me for you?”

“Of course, yes. And I’m going to work on my memory—and my whistle.”

As Della rose to leave, Libby Larson indeed began trying to whistle. Trying to replicate what she had heard.

Despite her condition, she found a tune.

And as she walked out, Della went still. At first, the whisper of a whistle just teased at her memory as well.

Then she thought that she recognized the tune—and that yes, it had been meant to tease and taunt.

And knowing Dante, she thought bitterly, it was almost an invitation. He wanted them to run around trying to follow him.

He didn’t want them missing any of his handiwork.

Excerpted from Cursed at Dawn by Heather Graham. Copyright © 2023 by Heather Graham Pozzessere. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Author Bio: 

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.

Social Links:

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Facebook: @Heather Graham

Twitter: @HeatherGraham

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