The joy of the previous moment is erased by the concern on Lance’s face. Carefully, I draw a curtain on my real thoughts and fill him in on the visitors I had this morning. First Harris and then Mrs. Williams.
“Jesus,” he says when I finish. “You don’t really think Williams committed suicide, do you? And what was he doing in the desert?”
Once again, I have to compose my thoughts. Lance has no idea Williams was with Underwood in Palm Springs. I shrug. “Maybe Frey was right when he said we were followed to Palm Springs. Whoever followed us may have reported to Williams and he was on his way to intercept us.”
“Still doesn’t explain how he ended up dead.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
I’ve been toying with the envelope I’d thrown on the desk as I spin my tale. I reach into a drawer and pull out a letter opener, more a diversionary tactic than interest in the contents. When I slit it open, a single folded sheet of copy paper falls out.
Lance has picked up the thread of our conversation. “What’s going to happen to Mrs. Williams now? I can’t believe the bastard turned her and didn’t teach her anything about being a vampire.”
His words register in my head; I think I actually nod in reply. But my attention is caught by the four words printed in bold caps on the paper I hold in my hand:
TONIGHT. MIDNIGHT.
BE READY.
I’d been wondering when Underwood would get in touch. I have my answer.
Lance peers at me, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, slip the paper into a desk drawer, toss the envelope into the wastebasket. “Nothing.” I push my chair back, stand up. “Let’s go to the cottage.”
He stands, too, but gestures toward the drawer. “What was in the envelope?”
I take his arm and turn him toward the door. “Just a reminder from David. He’s out of town, but we have a new partner and I’ll be working with her for the first time tonight.”
“New partner? When did that happen?”
I fill him in about Tracey. Most of what I tell him is the truth. Except, of course, the part about having a job tonight.
That’s a lie.
CHAPTER 28
Lance is showering. I’m pacing. For once, I was hoping Lance would say he had to go home tonight, to the beach house. It didn’t happen. I should have known it wouldn’t. He’s still in protective mode.
We had a nice day. Took a walk on the boardwalk, had beers in a neighborhood bar. Watched a Padres game on the big screen. Did things that human couples do.
I might have enjoyed it more if I didn’t have this appointment with Underwood looming. And if I didn’t have to guard every thought that went through my head. Lance knows that my job entails midnight runs—he’s just made it clear he intends to make this one with us.
How am I going to get out of this?
Lance comes downstairs wearing one of my robes. It’s a big pink chenille job, and I laugh in spite of the heaviness I feel in my heart. “You look better in that thing than I do.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I found it in the back of your closet. Did you really used to wear this thing?”
“I didn’t have you around when I was human. I got cold in the winter.”
He fingers the heavy material. “No wonder so many mortal women have dreary sex lives. This is about as appealing as a flannel nightgown.”
“Good thing you didn’t check the dresser. There are a few of those in there, too.” I hook a finger in the belt and give a tug. “Besides, wearing it isn’t the sexy part. Taking it off, that’s the sexy part.”
He bends his face close to mine. “We’ll test that theory. Right after I fix us a drink.”
He lets his lips brush mine, a tease, and steps away to head for the kitchen. “Hold that thought.”
I start pacing again as soon as he’s out of sight.
What am I going to do? I don’t even have a sleeping pill in the house to drug him. Not that one pill would do it. Vampires have strong constitutions. It would take a half bottle to affect him. Nor can I bring myself to use physical force. I could knock him out but that would be painful. A headache is a headache no matter the species.
And when he came to, what then? He’d have every right to be furious with me. Caring for me has not exactly been easy. What if he wanted to stop seeing me? I’m not ready for that. I like having him around. I like the way he makes me feel. I like the way we fit.
Shit. The only thing I’m sure of is I can’t tell him the truth. I won’t risk his insisting on coming with me. Underwood has already shown how little regard he has for Lance. I won’t risk another attempt on his life.
Lance is back with two glasses, an ice bucket, a plate of limes and an open bottle of tequila. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Funny expression for a vamp to use,” I retort.
He fills the glasses with ice and booze and hands me one. “Not really. Not tonight.” His expression is serious, his eyes veiled, a reflection of the barrier he’s erected around his own thoughts. “You’ve spent most of the day locking me out of your head. Do you want to tell me why?”
He raises his glass and we touch rims and drink. His gaze never wavers from my face.
I’m the one who looks away first. I do it by pretending to spill some of my drink, by wiping at my mouth with a hand. “Jesus. I’m so clumsy. I’ll get a napkin.”
He takes my glass and I feel him watching as I leave for the kitchen.
This is going to be so much harder than I thought.
I stall as long as I can before rejoining Lance in the living room. He’s taken a seat on the couch and refilled my glass. I still have no idea how I’m going to get away in—a surreptitious glance at my watch—an hour and a half.
Lance’s mood has lightened. He smiles as he gives me back my glass. “I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s drink tonight. A lot. Let’s forget the last few days and get roaring drunk. Drink until we pass out.”
Now that’s a plan I hadn’t thought of. No drugs. No brute force. He’s picked his own poison. All I have to do is pretend to drink as much as he does. Then distract him while I dispose of the liquor. There are enough plants around us here in the living room to take care of that.
Potted plants. Many soon-to-be very potted plants.
I grin at my own little joke.
“I like it.” I tilt my head back and drain my glass. “Your turn.”
Lance has already refilled our glasses. I put mine to my lips and take a long pull. I know how much liquor I can hold. I figure another glass or two, and then I’ll stop drinking.
I don’t know how Underwood plans to contact me at midnight but if Lance continues to drink at this rate, he should be too hammered to realize I’m gone. He’s already started on a third drink.
I’ve been sitting close to him on the couch. He bends toward me to refill my glass and I peek into the gaping robe. “You have such great pecs.”
It’s what I’m thinking. In my head. What I hear coming out of my mouth is different. Slurred. My lips feel swollen and my tongue heavy. I look up into Lance’s face and the room starts to spin. The glass falls from my hand.
“What the—?”
Lance takes me by the shoulders. He stands up so he can lower my body until I’m lying full length on the couch. He strokes my cheek.
“I’m sorry, Anna.”
It’s the last thing I hear before the darkness rises to swallow me up.
CHAPTER 29
I’m dreaming.
I must be. My body is floating, rising on an invisible cushion of air.
No. Not on air. Hands lift me. Hands at my shoulders, my legs, someone cradling my head.
I open my eyes. Can’t see. It’s too dark. Odd. Vampires can see in the dark.
Why can’t I?
Someone is singing in a clear, high voice. Pretty. Somber. A language I don’t recognize. I like the sound. Comforting somehow.
I smell incense. A familiar scent. Flora
l, woodsy. Someone’s cologne?
Can’t remember.
I’m shivering. It’s cold. Damp. Another smell underneath the incense. Musty. Stale. Like dirt.
Try to turn my head. Two strong hands prevent me. When I try to shake my head, to shake the hands off, the grip tightens.
“Don’t try to fight, Anna.”
Whose voice is that?
My mind struggles to penetrate the cloud shrouding my thoughts just as my body struggles to shake off the hands.
I accomplish neither.
Instead, those carrying me press closer, restrict my movements now with their bodies as well as their hands.
“She shouldn’t be struggling,” a voice nearby says. “She should be out. Did you do what I told you?”
“Yes. I gave her exactly the dose you prescribed.” That same familiar voice at my head. “You underestimated her strength.”
The feeling of fingers smoothing hair back from my forehead. “I don’t want her hurt. You promised me she wouldn’t be hurt.”
I want to scream, “Then why the fuck did you do this?”
But I know I’m the only one who hears. The shriek echoes and bounces in the void as if entrapped in a vault.
Perhaps it’s just as well.
I recognize the voice. Recognize the touch and smell of the hand on my forehead.
Bitter tears stream down my face.
The irony that one of my last thoughts before he drugged me was that I wanted to protect him.
Lance.
I stop struggling. I need a plan, need to gather strength.
The chanting grows louder. The procession comes to a halt. The hands lower me onto something cold and unyielding. My limbs are arranged, hands over my head and secured. Legs straightened.
Whatever I’m lying on is rough, where my back and legs rest there are uneven, jagged edges that bite into the skin. It’s worse if I try to move.
So I don’t.
Something is thrown over me. Something lightweight that floats on my skin like silk. Its touch makes me aware that until now, I was naked, exposed not only to the hands but the eyes of whoever bore me to this place.
Revulsion roils in my gut, bile rises in my throat.
I’m going to be sick.
No.
Swallow it back down. Turn the disgust into anger. Taste the bile and savor it because it is fuel for the rage.
The chanting grows louder. Exhortations to a goddess. Mari.
How do I know that?
The name is sung over and over. The chorus swells. More voices. More phrases that I shouldn’t be able to understand yet somehow, I do. Mari. The goddess of the earth. Protectress of those who rule in heaven, on earth, and below. Queen of the thunder and the wind and keeper of the storm. Beloved of her servants, those who surround her here, and her consort, Maju.
Maju?
The chant changes in tempo and pitch. It is Maju they call for now. Mari’s husband. Her mate. It is time, the words proclaim, time to fulfill the prophecy. Time to make heaven tremble and the underworld quake. Time to bring Mari and Maju out of the dark and into the light. Time for them to take their rightful place as rulers over all.
Time to consummate their love anew so the reign of the Sorginak can begin. Time for the lovers to reunite after five hundred years.
Lovers?
A hand lifts the veil, pushes it up from my ankles, gathers it at my waist.
No.
Something sharp, clawlike, traces a path on the inside of my thighs. It tickles and burns at the same time.
I try to kick out. Hands grab my ankles. Thrust something under my buttocks so my back is arched.
No.
Another hand circles my waist, pulls me forward.
It’s grown quiet around us—the chanting stopped. Now there are other sounds. Heavy breathing and lust-filled grunts. The smell of sex mingles with the incense. Those around us are pleasuring themselves as they watch.
Memories flood back. A year ago. In the backseat of a car. Donaldson hitting me until I blacked out. When I awoke . . .
A voice at my ear pulls me back.
“Don’t fight, Anna. You are Mari. A goddess. Destined to rule beside me for all eternity. Give yourself to me. Willingly. You have nothing to lose and the world to gain. I will be good to you. I will give you all.”
I force myself to grow still under his weight. Force myself to endure the feel of his hands as they push the veil higher to cup my breasts. Still, I force myself to endure the feel of him as he pushes against me, as he pries my legs open with his own to receive him. Force myself to wait until my mind is clear. Until I’m strong enough.
I couldn’t fight Donaldson. Didn’t understand the changes wrought by our exchange of blood.
This isn’t Donaldson.
Concentrate. Gather strength. Feel as it coils inside me. Tighter and tighter.
He is trying to ram himself into me.
I tense muscles and squirm away.
He grows angry. He curses. His hands clutch at my hips, pull me back and up. He will not stop.
I will make him.
I call out.
First to Lance.
Only silence responds. A flickering ember of regret quickly extinguished.
Then to the vampire. To the animal inside me. I know she hears. She’s struggling. Frantic. Full of rage.
It happens.
The vampire bursts free of her drug-induced chains. Her voice, my voice, unleashes its fury in a primal scream that reverberates in the cave like a roar of thunder. My eyes fly open. This time, I see.
I pull at the bindings at my wrists. They rip away.
A cry of alarm goes up around me.
When he raises his head, Underwood’s eyes have only an instant to register surprise.
Only an instant before I’ve ripped out his throat.
Only an instant before I’ve drained him of every drop of his blood.
CHAPTER 30
Silence. Utter and complete.
I sit up, thrust away the leathery shell that was Julian Underwood.
My teeth are bared. My eyes sweep the shocked faces surrounding me. Twelve of them. Men and women. Stinking of sex and that cloying smell. Incense. Underwood’s cologne. The same.
They are all naked, the women with potbellies and sagging breasts. The men with flabby arms and shrinking members. When their eyes meet mine, they step back, press against the wall of—
I look around. We’re in a cave.
I look again.
Where is he?
“Lance!”
The name rips from the bowels of my belly, full of anger and the bitterness of betrayal.
There is no answer.
I jump from the rock bier on which I’d been tied. It is elevated, surrounded by candles—some sort of ritualistic altar upon which I was to be joined with Underwood.
For what purpose?
Is this the fate of the Chosen One? Is this what it means? My destiny was to be raped by a madman in front of a delusional sect of . . . I don’t even know what they are.
There is a woman standing at the head of the altar. She is clutching a thurible, the kind used in churches, by its silver chain. Incense curls up from the bowl, polluting the air around us. When her eyes meet mine, the thurible crashes to the floor. The incense flares and burns out.
I grab her by the throat before she can flee. “What are you?”
She blinks at me as if not understanding the question.
I shake her. “What are you?”
She goes limp in my hands. When I release my grip, she falls to the floor, her neck at an odd angle.
I reach for the man next to her. He does not flinch or try to get away. He lowers his eyes and bows his head.
“Mother,” he whispers. “Mari.”
“No.” I bark out the word. “No. Who the fuck are you people? Why did you bring me here?”
He looks puzzled at the question. “You are the goddess. We are your servants. We
are Sorginak. Here to do your bidding. Here to serve.”
He speaks accented English. The emphasis on the last syllable in each word produces a singsong effect that I recognize. It’s a French accent.
I throw a scathing look toward Underwood’s desiccated corpse. “And who is he?”
“He is—” A pause, a shudder. “He was Maju. Your husband. He—we—have waited five hundred years for your return.”
The words of the chant fill my head. I realize now why I was able to understand. Three years of high school and four of college French. It wasn’t French, not the French I remember, but obviously a dialect.
I release the man. For he is a man. Nothing more. “How do you know of five hundred years? You are mortal.”
He takes one step back, head still bowed. “Our line has served you since the beginning. We will serve you until the end.” He gestures toward the body of the woman at his feet. “We are yours to do with as you will.”
Rage still cuts through me, turning my thoughts red with the bloodlust. These pathetic, deluded creatures would have watched as Underwood raped me, watched while indulging their own sick fantasies. I want to tear at their throats, one after the other, and drink until there is nothing left but husk.
Instead, I turn my back to them. Pick up the coverlet of red silk that had been thrown over me and wind it around my body like a sarong.
When I face them again, the human has regained a tenuous hold. With the return of reason, comes something else.
The realization that it was Lance who delivered me to Underwood.
“Where is the other?” I ask.
“He has gone.”
I close my eyes. Allow one moment of grief to wash over me.
Lance.
When I open them again, I grab the man nearest me and shove him forward. “Get me out of here.”
Wordlessly, the procession moves through the cave. I follow behind. Watching. Probing the air with my senses. Underwood’s blood feels thick, polluted in my veins. I’ve tasted evil. I will need an infusion of clean blood to rid myself of the poison.
I think of Lance. His scent hangs in the air. He passed this way recently.
Lance.
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