Muted voices called for me. Someone fired a gun and bullets thwacked the ducting, sounding like nails pounded into a can.
I crawled through piles of greasy dust and mouse nests. The little critters leapt before me, as surprised as I would be if a rhino charged through my home.
I climbed the final vertical shaft. Ahead, the fan from the air conditioner roared and spewed an icy blast. I drew close, the squirrel cage fan spinning like a gigantic mincer.
I reached behind me and ripped loose a long strip of the galvanized steel. Carefully, I fed the strip into the fan, backing away and letting go when the blades snagged the steel.
The steel strip wound around the fan cage, slapping the sides, squealing, slowing with a creak, and then stopping. The electric motor driving the fan moaned and began to smoke.
I reached through the fan and tore the drive belt. The electric motor immediately churned free, but no matter, the squirrel cage fan wouldn't move. I grasped the central shaft and levered the fan off its bearings.
Bracing my feet against the ducting, I pushed the fan aside to make room to crawl through. My free hand touched a filter pad silted with the residue of Los Angeles smog.
Christ, we breathed this air?
I straight-armed the filter pad and pushed through a louvered vent cover, folding the metal.
I crawled onto the roof, the asphalt and gravel still warm from the day's sun. I coughed to clear the crap inhaled from inside the ducting. My mouth tasted like I'd been chewing the canister bag of a vacuum cleaner. I couldn't smell anything through my clogged nose.
I sloughed the powdery grime from my clothes. The indigo bowl of the evening sky faded to cobalt blue over the western horizon. All around me, the horizon was lit up from the glow of suburban lights.
The building sat in a small complex along a busy throughfare that ran north and south. My best escape was through a nearby stand of eucalyptus trees and then to find a way of crossing the many miles back to Coyote's.
I dashed across the roof and jumped for the eucalyptus trees. I swung through the twisted branches Tarzan style, weaving through the trees until I was out of sight from the building.
Once I put enough distance between Venin's goons and myself, I dropped to the ground and dashed into the street. I sprinted behind a delivery truck and jumped on the rear bumper. Clinging to the rear door, I rode along for several blocks.
A Buick sedan crowded behind us, the driver a balding man too absorbed with his cell phone to notice me.
We slowed for a traffic light and I dismounted, heading for the parking lot of a Longs Drug. A sprinkler irrigated the grass on the narrow strip between the sidewalk and a row of hedges flanking the parking lot. I stopped to rinse my face and hands. Without makeup, my skin had a translucent pallor. I rinsed my mouth and spat, thankful to finally get rid of the awful taste of air-conditioner duct.
Tall lamps illuminating the parking lot cast shadows on my side of the hedge. Humans in their red auras sauntered to and from the cars and the store. I had dropped my sunglasses and, tapping my pockets, discovered that I had lost my contacts as well.
With my makeup all but gone, in these filthy clothes, and with my eyes unmasked-my tapetum lucidum resplendent with an unholy shine-there was no way I could mingle with the humans. A flatulent skunk would be less noticeable.
Still, I had to get away as fast as possible. Venin's undead thugs would cruise the streets, on the watch for my telltale orange aura.
Chapter Thirty-eight
A Kia sedan sat in the middle of the parking lot. A middle-aged woman in a burgundy dress and blazer took brisk steps toward the little car. A short ponytail dangled over the back of her collar. She passed through the circle of light under the lamp, and the glare painted sparkling highlights on her face and blond head. She chatted into a cell phone, a plastic shopping bag hanging from one arm, and keys jangling from her free hand.
She approached the Kia from the right. My path to her would be from the left, her blind side. I could easily traverse the parking lot and she wouldn't notice me until I was on her. I crept away from the hedge, wary that Venin's vampires were on the prowl. I walked toward the woman, resisting the urge to break into a run.
The Kia's lights flickered as the woman reached for the driver's door. She snapped her phone closed.
I said, "Nice car."
The woman turned around, startled. Her aura blazed from surprise.
I gave her a smile and an intense vampire stare.
Her aura lit up brighter, like I had reached into her and turned up the psychic rheostat.
"Relax," I said. "You'll be fine." I walked her to the passenger's side and buckled her in tight.
The drive to Coyote's would take an hour. My gaze wasn't enough to hold this woman in hypnosis. I'd have to fang this blonde to keep her unconscious for a while.
I drove to the side of the store, where I halted in the shadows. I pulled her close, loosened the blazer, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse.
This woman, whoever she was, I guessed to be in her early forties. A dainty, pretty face. Thin, bony frame. Her skirt, hitched above her knees, revealed narrow calves tapering to skinny ankles. She wore a gold wedding set.
I reached over her and released the seat back until her torso lay at a low angle. Caressing her hair, I tilted her head to expose a sumptuous throat.
Pints of savory blood awaited me. My fangs extended and pressed against my lower lip. I lowered my mouth to her neck and gently but firmly pushed my fangs through her skin.
The blood gushed into my mouth, velvety warm and delicious. Minutes ago I wormed my way though filthy air-conditioning ducts and now I enjoyed this human ambrosia.
I only wanted to knock this woman out, but the richness of her blood comforted me like hot soup would a man rescued from an avalanche. My mouth lingered on her neck and I enjoyed the exquisite bouquet of tastes: tangy Thai peppers, onions, wine-chardonnay, I'm sure-lemons; sesame oil; the metallic grate of ibuprofen; and then-garlic.
I barely got the driver's door open before I heaved.
The blood vomit splashed on the asphalt. I wiped my mouth and regretted that bile had replaced the rich taste of her blood. This woman must have popped garlic cloves like they were salted peanuts. My own stink kept me from smelling it on her.
Certain that Venin's guards covered the avenues along the north, since that was the way we had come into Brentwood, I went south to Highway 1 and took the long, long way back to Interstate 10.
At the tiny burg of Belvedere adjacent to Boyle Heights, I parked in front of a busy Asian market with plenty of female customers. I walked the blonde into the driver's seat. She moved dully, only barely obeying my voice.
To make it up to her, I counted two hundred dollars in twenties and tucked the cash into one cup of her padded brassiere. I fixed up her blouse and hair, and locked the door.
When she came to, this woman would have one hell of a time trying to figure out how she got here, and of course, the discovery of the money would deepen the mystery. Then again, this was Los Angeles, so maybe it had happened to her before.
I wound my way through the neighborhood. Dogs barking behind fences marked my trail. Near the freeway, a couple of homeless men tended a small fire and heated a can of stew. I stayed within the gloom under the overpass until I found the ravine leading to Coyote's. Weeds and scrawny shrubs grew along the chain-link fence. I ducked through the gap under the fence and made my way along the muddy creek to Coyote's home.
After what happened today, I remained cautious and stopped for a moment to observe his house. Yellow light peeked from around the edges of a curtain drawn over the kitchen window. I heard the strumming of guitars and the bleating of an accordion set to the strains of a Mexican corrido. I was glad not to find anything suspicious. I needed a rest from being hunted.
When I stepped on the porch, Coyote called out, "Felix? That you?" The door opened. He held a mop, and his trousers were rolled to midshin.
&nbs
p; "Shit, dude, where you been? No place good, I can tell. Apestas." You stink. He waved a hand before his nose.
I followed him inside. The kitchen table and chairs were jumbled together in one corner. Muddy, soapy water puddled on the tattered linoleum floor.
"I found it," I said. "The vampire-human connection."
"Where?" Coyote turned the radio down.
I recounted the attack with the silver bullets, Tonic's murder, the ride with Rachel, and my meeting with Petale Venin. When I described Venin's eyes and her resistance to hypnosis, Coyote let go of the mop, and it splashed in the water.
"?Ojos chuecos?" Crooked eyes?
I repeated the description.
Coyote's aura glistened with streaks of worry. "Vato, this is bad." He picked up the mop and jammed it into a bucket. "I've seen one of these ojos chuecos before."
"When?"
"The Inquisition."
"The Spanish Inquisition?"
"No, the Malibu Inquisition. Chingao"-dammit-"vato, what kind of question is that? Of course the Spanish Inquisition."
"Was this crooked eyes human?" I asked.
"Yes, and like your councilwoman, he was not affected by vampire hypnosis."
"Why?"
"Don't know. You ever hypnotized an ojos chuecos?" Coyote made one eye circle right and the other left. "Or somebody with one eye? I never have." Coyote jutted his chin, shut one eye, and squinted through the other to imitate Popeye. "Maybe you need two eyes to get the full effect." He opened both eyes wide and cupped his hands over them, as if he were looking through binoculars. "You know, stereoscopic vision."
"Could it be a supernatural power? Something Venin has in common with the inquisitor? Maybe she's a descendant?"
"Felix, you're supposed to bring me answers, not more questions." Coyote dragged the kitchen table onto a bump of dry floor. He placed a washbasin on the table and took a stockpot from the stove to fill the basin with warm water. He slapped a bar of soap and a towel on the table. "Andale." Here.
I took off my shirt and lathered my hands. "What happened with this inquisitor?"
"It was a bad time, ese. This crooked eyes was sent by King Charles to hunt for Jews and heretics among the Conquistadores. He was obsessed with finding the red-eyed demons." Coyote lifted his face to me. His eyes glowed crimson as warning lamps.
"Why didn't you attack him?"
"For the same reason you didn't attack Venin," replied Coyote.
"I couldn't. She was protected by vampires."
"The same as the Inquisitor."
"You said he was after red-eyed demons, meaning vampires."
Coyote nodded.
"Then why would vampires protect him?" I asked.
"Where better to hide than among your enemies? Vampires worked for the inquisitor."
"As vampires?"
"Simon. Back then there was no dividing line between the natural and the fantastic. You didn't need scientific proof to believe in devils and el cucui"-the bogeyman. "The inquisitor used the powers of these vampires. Remember, the church justified the use of torture and murder to promote the mercy of Christ. Then why not enlist undead bloodsuckers to root out the unbelievers?"
"How many vampires? One? Two? A dozen?"
"I didn't stick around to count. These vampires were the worst. They would perform any act of sadism in the name of the Holy Church."
I asked, "Why would any vampire compromise himself by openly serving a human master?"
"It doesn't start out that way. As humans grow stronger in numbers and knowledge, we vampires have to shrink farther into the shadows to hide. We think an arrangement with humans gives us the chance to use terror and flaunt supernatural powers. But we forget humans are the most cunning and treacherous of predators. Only when it is too late do we realize we're on the wrong end of the leash."
"But we are vampires."
"Our powers are only half of what humans fear about us. The other half is fear of the unknown. We get too close, too familiar, and humans learn our strengths and weaknesses."
Strengths and weaknesses. "Petale Venin used those exact words. So how can she control vampires?"
"By giving vampires what they think they want-the illusion of freedom and control among humans. Vato, it's not enough that she can resist hypnosis. Venin recognizes our powers and sees us not as monsters but as tools."
"Cragnow talked about the next step in human evolution," I said. "He saw this partnership with Venin as a means to create a society with humans and the undead."
"The trap is Venin builds her authority until she's more valuable than any vampire. Either follow her orders or the group turns on you. It's like before, ese."
"During the Inquisition?"
"The same. That didn't end well. All the vampires in the king's service…" Coyote pretended to gather dust from the table and shift it through his fingers.
"Then it's only a matter of time before Venin sells out the nidus."
Coyote's gaze wandered for a moment and settled on me. "What should we do, mi jefe?"
"We've got plenty of questions. Let's go get answers."
Chapter Thirty-nine
"C'mon, vato ," Coyote yelled. His head thrust through the open window of his truck. "Push faster. This time it will start for sure."
I gave his Ford pickup a push up the dip in front of his house. "What happened to the money I lent you? You promised me you'd only spend it on the truck."
"I did. I found this real chingon accessory. Gives my ride a classy touch."
His truck sputtered and coughed. The tailgate pulled away from me. Success.
Just as his front tires crested the dip, black smoke belched from the exhaust pipe. The truck slowed, stopped, and rolled backward.
"Get out of the way," Coyote shouted and waved his arm for emphasis, as if the ton and a half of rust rumbling at me wasn't enough to get my attention.
I stepped away and let the truck coast to the bottom of the dip and continue up the other side for twenty feet then slide back to the bottom. I wish I had my big new Chrysler rental, but that remained where I had left it, close to Trixie's Bistro.
Coyote circled his finger and whistled. "Otra vez." Again.
"How about I drive and you push?"
"Chale. It takes magic to start this baby."
"Your magic doesn't seem to be working well."
"That's 'cuz you don't believe."
On the third effort, his miserable excuse for transportation chuffed along the street. I ran after it and scrambled into the passenger's seat.
"Looky here." Coyote raised his right leg to show me an oversize chrome pedal in the shape of a foot. "This is what I bought. Classy, no?"
"Not as classy as a starter."
"Vato, you know what your problem is? You have no sense of barrio style."
Cragnow Vissoom lived along the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains. On the way there we would pass where my rental car was parked, but when we got there, the Chrysler was gone. Stolen? Or towed away by the police or renegade vampires. Regardless, it meant going to Cragnow's in this humiliating wreck.
Coyote asked, "Did you see Veronica?"
"I spent Monday night with her."
"How's that going?"
"Not sure." I told Coyote about my warning to Veronica and her reaction. "But no matter what, I won't let anything happen to her."
"What about the other vieja? The one you met at Daniel's funeral." Coyote mimed with his hands, as if he held two large cantaloupes.
"You mean Polly Smythe? She can take care of herself. Why, you want to meet her? By the way…" I pulled Coyote's hands farther apart.
His eyebrows danced upward. "That big? Then yeah, maybe soon, ese."
"One thing nags me," I said. "What does Lara Phillips have to do with any of this? There's a lot of shady business between her boyfriend the reverend and the others in this case. Why would she be involved with a man so close to those who wanted Roxy out of the way?"
"Maybe Lara's
trying to find answers of her own?"
"I didn't get that impression," I replied. "In fact, the opposite. She's hiding something."
We drove to Beverly Hills and started the ascent up Coldwater Canyon Drive. Some homes were brightly lit and cheery, others ensconced in gloom. We passed acres of stately mansions with manicured hedges and postcard-perfect king palms. Mercedes coupes and sedans along the curbs meant that the fancy wheels-Bentleys, Lamborghinis, and Royces-occupied the garages.
The higher we climbed, the smaller the homes became and the closer they crowded the road. Lawns shrank to narrow strips and disappeared altogether. Near the top of the ridge, Coldwater Canyon merged with Mulholland Drive. At the corner of the next turn, a dirt road led between two rustic stone columns that formed the mouth of a tunnel through the dense overgrowth.
"That's it," I told Coyote. "But don't slow down."
Coldwater Canyon Drive angled away from Mulholland and down to the San Fernando Valley. We stayed on Mulholland until we found a house with a FOR SALE sign. A month's worth of newspapers littered the front stoop. We pulled into the narrow driveway, parked, and sneaked through the underbrush toward Cragnow's estate.
Coyote and I found a clearing in the scrub, waited, and listened. There was no breeze to rustle the leaves and mask movement. Little red auras darted in and out of the thatched cover. A raccoon crawled along the branches of a gnarled oak. Mice skittered in the grass. An owl hooted. A snake pushed through the dry leaves on the ground.
A Land Rover came up Franklin Canyon Drive and turned east on Mulholland. Three red auras advertised the human occupants. The Land Rover drove by and left.
Moving as carefully as the little animals of the night, Coyote and I made our way through the dry thicket and rocky ground. I was on the alert for a supernatural presence, but I shouldn't overlook human methods: video cameras, sensor beams, and trip wires. I didn't see any, but again, we were still a quarter mile from his place.
We eased through a cut in the spine of the ridge and continued in an easterly direction until we came across the driveway onto Cragnow's property. We were farther north than expected. The gravel road curved to the left. Through the tunnel of trees I could see the backs of the stone columns marking the entrance. To the right, light splashed onto the driveway and outlined the trees and brush.
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