Dad is equally impressed. “Trish, your grandmother would be so proud!”
He’s passing a platter of spring lamb and vegetables. Smells delicious but I, of course, beg off with the excuse of a late lunch in town. Dinner is always the hardest meal to fake. Since neither my father nor Trish know my true nature, I’m constantly inventing excuses to explain why I’m skipping dinner. When John-John and Frey are here, they help by surreptitiously taking food from my plate. On my own, it’s a lot harder. Breakfast is the easiest meal because Dad leaves early for the fields and Trish is usually preoccupied with her school day ahead. Lunch, Trish is still at school and Dad drops in to grab a bite and is off again. It’s dinner that’s the problem. I fall back on “eating” a lot of late lunches, but sooner or later, Dad is going to question that.
All this passes through my mind as I sip my wine and watch Trish and Dad enjoying their meal.
After a few minutes, I say, “A part in the school play! Your French must be superb, Trish. I can’t believe how quickly you’ve picked up the language.”
“Well,” she says modestly. “We have been here a few years now. And Grandmother always practiced with me.”
There’s a wistful tone in her voice. Dad quickly chimes in. “Well, if you need help with your lines, I’m here. Je parle assez bien français, aussi, vous savez.”
“Oui, vous le faites, pépé. Nous vous remercions de l'offre. Je vais vous prendre au mot.”
They’re grinning like Cheshire cats at each other. I flash again on the thought that maybe it’s time for me to go back to San Diego. My work here may be done.
Then, I remember what happened with Vlad this afternoon. I can speak a little French, but not read it. “Dad? Is there anything in the newspaper about something going on in Marseilles?”
“Marseilles?” He pauses, eyebrows raised. “Nothing out of the ordinary in the last couple of days. But there is a perennial gang problem. Poverty, a large immigrant population, drugs. Just the right ingredients for a troubled community. A year ago, there were twenty drive-by shootings.” He hands Trish a dish, then adds, “They call Marseilles the Gangland of the Riviera. Like Chicago in the 30’s. Why do you ask?”
I take another sip of wine. “I just heard something in the café today.”
“About the kidnappings?” Trish asks.
I look at her. “Kidnappings?”
Her expression is solemn. “Three in the last six months. Young girls. Taken right from their parents’ homes. One girl was from Lorgues. I didn’t know her, but my friend did. It’s awful.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Dad adds. “Two of the girls were found dead within three days of their disappearances. The third,” he glances at Trish, “is still missing. She didn’t go to your school, did she?”
Trish shakes her head. “No. But it’s got everyone rattled anyway, especially since my friend Cecily knew her.”
“And the Marseilles gangs are somehow involved?”
Dad shrugs. “No one knows for sure. But the girls were found in the northern part of the city, where gang activity is most prevalent. The motive seems to be ransom, but both parents of the dead girls paid and their daughters were still killed. It’s a grim situation the police can’t seem able to get a handle on.”
My brain immediately gravitates to wondering if this could be something other than human dirtbags. Could there be a supernatural connection? Of course, asking if any of the girls were drained of their blood would hardly be a logical question to throw out.
A cell phone chimes from the other room. “That’s probably Cecily,” Trish says, brightening. “We’ve got to decide on our rehearsal schedule. Do you mind?” she asks Dad.
He waves her off. “Go. Can’t interfere with the artist at work.”
Once she’s gone, I smile at Dad. “She’s really doing well.” I lean closer and touch his hand. “How about you? How are you doing?”
The smile is still on his lips but his eyes cloud with sadness. “I miss your mother every minute of every day. I just thank God for you and Trish. Without you two…”
He must read something in my expression because he stops. He squeezes my hand. “It’s time for you to go home, isn’t it? Back to San Diego.”
I release a breath. “You know I’ll stay as long as you and Trish need me. But yes, at some point, I have to go back. David and Tracey have been carrying on without me, but I can’t ask them to do it forever.”
He nods and sighs. “If it were up to me, I’d have you and Frey and John-John move here. Help me run the vineyard.” He sighs again. “But that’s my dream. Not yours. Your mother and I learned our lesson a long time ago about interfering—I won’t make that mistake again.”
He’s speaking of the rift that once arose between us because I made the decision to give up teaching for bounty hunting. But that was another lifetime ago. Before I became a vampire. Before Trish came into our lives. “That seems so long ago,” I say.
“Not so long that I haven’t forgotten the pain we caused you. I don’t ever want you to resent me, Anna. Not ever again.”
Trish bounds back into the room. She must sense the darkened mood because she stops, looking from her grandfather to me. “Is everything all right?”
“Absolutely.” I gesture for her to return to her place at the table. “So when is this play anyway?”
“Three weeks.” She slips into her chair. “We’ll be rehearsing every day after school and on Saturday afternoons.” She looks at Dad. “That’s all right, isn’t it? I promise to keep up with my chores and homework.”
“Of course it is.” He glances at me. “But I’m not sure your Aunt Anna will be here—”
“Are you kidding?” I stop him with an upturned hand. “Miss Trish’s stage debut? Not on your life. David and Tracey can wait another couple of weeks.” I lean toward Trish. “But I think you’d better translate the play for me before the curtain goes up. I don’t think my limited French is up to the task.”
It’s not until later, when I’m in bed, that I think again about Vlad and his Marseilles problem. I don’t know what’s more aggravating, the way he shut me down or me being so out of touch with the European vampire community. As he took great pleasure in reminding me, the vampires here, the oldest in existence, claim their own sovereignty. They never recognized my position as the Chosen One. Since the execution of their leader a few months ago, Vlad has reluctantly assumed a leadership role.
But then, I’m out of touch with my own vampire community. I’ve not had contact with any vampires in the States or elsewhere, and they, out of consideration for my mother’s passing, have left me to grieve in private. That, too, will end once I return to the States.
My thoughts return to Marseilles. Of course, there’s the distinct possibility that the kidnappings have nothing to do with vampires. Not that anyone would admit if they suspected it might. Our existence is still a secret, and most mortals know nothing of us.
Still, I’ll go into town tomorrow and pick up an English edition newspaper. Maybe I can pick up a clue or two on my own.
Chapter Four
I leave right after breakfast to head into Lourges. I drop Trish off at school first and make a stop at a little newsstand on Boulevard Georges Clemenceau, right next to the café where I met Vlad yesterday. I find several English language newspapers but pick The Connexion, a newspaper for the ex-pat community in France. It’s edited in Nice so I figure it would have the most local news for the region.
Settled in at the café with a latte and the newspaper, it doesn’t take me long to find an article about the kidnappings. During the night, the body of the third kidnap victim was discovered. Strangled, just like the others, and killed after the ransom demand had been met. I flash on Trish saying last night that her friend had known the girl. It makes this kidnapping feel very close to home.
The article goes on to say that it is believed an immigrant gang is responsible, operating outside of Marseilles. The suspicion is causing widespread r
esentment among the populace toward those now working the vineyards. To make matters worse, the leader of the gang is suspected to be Muslim. Police fear retaliation against all immigrants if the crimes are not solved quickly.
I take another sip of my coffee.
Well, that’s certainly qualifies as “a Marseilles business.” But nowhere does the article say that the girls met their deaths by exsanguinations—which would suggest to me that these girls might have been killed by vampires. Of course, police have been known to keep certain facts about a crime from the public. But the cause of death in all three cases was listed as strangulation.
If I were in San Diego now, I could call a friend in the coroner’s office and bribe him for more details.
As it is, all I can do is scan through the rest of the paper for anything else that might have a negative tie, however nebulous, to the vampire community. But I find no reports of attacks where a victim was bitten, no reports of animals found drained of their blood, no hospital or blood bank break-ins where blood was stolen. Nothing.
I fold up the paper, pay my bill, and head back to the estate.
Trish is somber when she returns from school in the afternoon. The news of the dead girl, Elizabeth Garnier, spread quickly throughout her class. It had been especially hard on Cecily, who organized a letter writing campaign of condolence notes to be sent to the Garnier family. Somehow the media got wind of it, and television crews were on campus to watch the collection of the notes. Cecily was even interviewed for a spot on the evening news. We watch while eating dinner on TV trays. Thanks to English close-captioning, I don’t have to constantly interrupt to have Dad or Trish translate.
Cecily Gerard, a sweet-faced girl with bright blue eyes and honey blonde hair, is composed as she reads the note she’s sending to her friend’s family. She speaks of her sorrow and shares a story of friendship with the girl. She closes the note with a sincere hope that her note, and the notes of others, will offer some peace to the family.
Trish is crying as the interview comes to a close. Dad and I swipe at threatening tears ourselves. Maybe because death had been a recent visitor to our family, we feel a particular kinship with this girl’s.
The notes won’t take away any of the pain, but the knowledge that there are others who understand might help ease the burden a bit.
The rest of the newscast centers on the police inquiry and the growing antagonism sweeping the Marseilles area toward the immigrant population. The police were doing their best to quell the animosity, but until they catch the killers, everyone who speaks a different language is suspect.
“That’s not a good sign,” I mumble as the news program drew to an end.
Dad is gathering the dinner dishes from our trays. “No. I wonder every day if my French workers are going to start showing some hostility toward the immigrants working for me. I’d hate to see that.”
“Why can’t they catch the killers?” Trish asks. “The police must have some idea who’s behind it.”
“I’m sure they’re doing their best.” I squeeze her shoulders. “But in the meantime, you are careful about talking to strangers, right? And you don’t go wandering off alone, even on the schoolyard, do you?”
“Aunt Anna,” she snaps. “I’m not a child, you know.”
But there is something else behind her words. Knowledge. Trish’s childhood was marred by a monster of a mother who pimped her out to men for money. She’s come a long way from that horrific time, but it will always be a part of her psyche.
“I know you’re not a child,” I whisper. “But neither were those girls.”
Trish starts to reply, but her cell phone chimes. She glances at the caller ID. “It’s Cecily. I’ll take it in my room.”
I can see she’s relieved to get away. I finish clearing the dishes and join Dad in the kitchen.
“Where’s Trish?” Dad asks.
“She was saved from the clutches of an over-protective aunt by a telephone call. She’s up in her room.” I stack the dishes on the counter. “I’ll wash if you dry.”
Dad moves aside so I can fill the sink with hot, soapy water.
“Be careful,” he says, watching steam rise. “You’ll burn yourself.”
I can’t tell him I’m impervious to heat and cold so I dutifully add a little cold water to the mix.
While we’re doing the dishes, he says, “I must admit, I’m more than a little nervous about what’s happening in Marseilles. The French have a name for where most immigrants live, banelieu défavorisée, poor areas that are considered by other residents as lawless. Even the government is more comfortable letting them settle things on their own terms. A throwback to the time when the Mafia ran Marseilles.”
“The Mafia? You don’t think of the Mafia as being a French thing.”
“Ran the city for decades.” He shrugs. “After a recent drive-by shooting, a local shopkeeper was heard to say that despite the bloodshed, he doesn’t live in fear for himself or his business. The bad guys here know how to aim, he said. They never hit customers.”
“Why are the police so sure it’s an immigrant gang taking the girls?”
“Because they’re a convenient target. Half the locals believe France should never have let foreigners into the country.” Dad puts the finishing touch on the last of the silverware and dries his hands. “Of course, we who run vineyards would be lost without immigrant workers. The ones I have are hard-working, loyal, and only trying to provide for their families.”
“Have you received any threats?” I ask.
But before he can answer, Trish joins us in the kitchen. Her face, freshly scrubbed of tears, is still somber.
“You’re timing is impeccable,” I tell her. “We just finished the dishes.”
But she doesn’t smile. “Sorry.”
“How is Cecily?” Dad asks.
Her shoulders rise in a half-shrug. “She’s not sure she’ll be at school tomorrow. She and her mom are taking the letters to Elizabeth’s parents.”
“Then I’ll drive you tomorrow morning,” I say. “And I’ll pick you up from school, too.”
She shoots me a really? look.
But she doesn’t voice an objection.
It’s just as well. It would have done her no good.
Trish’s school is just outside the city boundaries—it’s a Catholic school, a big, brick multi-level monstrosity run by the Jesuits. At three, she’s waiting for me. I pull into the driveway behind a line of cars that stretches back to the street. Across the street, two police cars are stationed. Four officers are keeping an eye on the students.
“I don’t remember there ever being this many parents picking up students,” I comment, navigating around the jam.
“This is new,” she says. “As are the police over there.” What she doesn’t add, what she has no need to add, is that it’s because of the kidnappings.
“Did Cecily make it to school?”
Trish shakes her head. “She left a message on my cell that she’d see me tomorrow.”
She’s clutching her books to her chest like a lifeline.
“Do you have much homework?” I ask.
Another shake of the head.
“Then how about you and I go riding this afternoon? I’m sure the neighbors would welcome the help with horses.”
Trish straightens a little in the seat. “You’ll go with me?”
“If you don’t take off like a bat out of hell and leave me in the dust.”
Trish actually smiles. “I promise.”
I don’t tell Trish, but for that smile she could leave me anywhere she wanted.
We get back from our horseback ride just as Dad is returning from his day in the vineyards.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You look a little stiff.”
Trish starts to laugh, hiding her face behind her hands.
I frown at her. “She rides like a racehorse jockey. I’m going to be sore for a week.” Sad, but true. Even a vampire can feel the result of bouncing o
n a saddle for two hours.
He links arms with us. “Let’s go into town for dinner,” he says. “But you two need to shower first. You both smell like a stable.”
Trish races to the house while Dad and I follow behind at a more leisurely pace.
“Thank you for taking Trish riding,” he says to me. “I can tell she enjoyed it.”
“I did, too. Really.” I rub my aching butt with the palm of my hand. “But my body isn’t so happy.”
We’re at the front door when we hear the phone ringing inside. Dad steps through first and goes to the kitchen to answer it. In a minute, he’s back, phone in hand, a deep frown darkening his face. He mouths at me, Get Trish.
The hair on the back of my neck starts to rise. I take the stairs two at a time, calling out for Trish as I go. She meets me in the hall in front of her bedroom door. She’s wrapped in a robe.
“What’s the matter?”
“Dad wants you downstairs.”
I’m trying to keep panic from reflecting on my face and voice and evidently, failing.
Her expression soon mirrors what I’m feeling. “What’s wrong?”
Dad’s voice reaches us from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down, Trish.”
She and I exchange a look of concern. Whatever it is, we both know, it’s not good.
Dad has the phone in one hand when Trish and I get downstairs. He holds it out to Trish. “It’s Cecily’s mother. She needs to talk to you.”
Trish takes the phone while Dad steers me a few steps away with a hand on my elbow. “Mrs. Gerard called for Cecily. She said her daughter left for school at noon and thought she planned to come home with Trish to go over lines for their play. At least that was the message she received from Cecily about two this afternoon. She was calling to see if she should come round to pick her up.”
My heart plummets, remembering that Trish said Cecily left her a message that she wouldn't be at school at all. I look at Trish, clutching the phone in a shaking hand, and try to stay calm despite the tornado of panic sweeping over me.
Anna and the Vampire Prince Page 2