Because the one thing I'm sure of is that Max needs to be warned that the FBI is on his tail.
Chapter 9
I think I could drive to Beso De La Muerte in my sleep, I've done it so many times. And even though it's almost November, a warm Santa Ana wind has turned up the heat and chased all traces of clouds and smog out of a sapphire sky. Even the Bay sparkles with diamond-tipped swells. I put the top down on the Jag and let the wind tickle my skin and play in my hair. It's the kind of day that I imagine the chamber of commerce pays photographers to capture. Postcard perfect.
The kind of day even a vampire enjoys. Makes me glad for adaptation. A few centuries ago, I could have only dreamed of days like this. I'd have been confined to some dark hole to await the safety of the night.
We've come a long way.
I've come a long way.
But not far enough, evidently. I pick up the tail in my rearview mirror just as I get on 5 South, heading for the border. I noticed the car first on Pacific Coast Highway
, a blue late-model sedan. It stuck with me as I cruised along the Bay, turned up Grape, and now it's two car lengths behind on the freeway. Coincidence? Could be. But more likely, it's Foley. I've had experience with the Feds. They don't take no lightly. And they don't believe anything you tell them that doesn't fit into their preconceived notions. Foley believes I know more than I told him and he's damn well going to prove it by letting me lead him straight to Max.
Sorry to disappoint you, Foley. I slow down and swerve onto the right shoulder. May as well let the jerk know that I've made him.
The blue Ford cruises past, the driver, not Foley, neither slows nor looks over at me. And he doesn't get off at the next exit, either.
Okay, I overreacted. I wait for a break in traffic and pull out. Still, I keep a lookout for anyone appearing to take undue interest in where I'm headed. Not an easy trick, since Mexico is a popular tourist destination from San Diego. But when I've crossed the border and set out on the road less traveled, away from Tijuana, and there's no one behind me, I start to relax. I guess I've let my imagination get the better of me.
Culebra is standing outside the saloon when I pull up, talking to a woman I don't recognize. She's human, I sense that right away. She stands with her back to me, weight evenly distributed on both feet, almost defensively. She's tall, taller than Culebra, with brunette hair drawn back in a scruffy ponytail. There's more hair out of the rubber band than in it. She's dressed in jeans and a tank top. Through the veil of hair that has escaped the rubber band, I see a tattoo at the nape of her neck, a snake coiled around a rod of some sort. There's another tattoo at the back of her shoulder. That one is a skull with a crimson rose where the mouth should be. She's in good shape, well-muscled arms and shoulders, small waist, narrow hips.
She turns at the sound of the car, glances my way, turns back to Culebra. Dismisses me with that one glance.
I immediately don't like her.
Still, I need to feed. And this is a human.
A host? I ask Culebra, climbing out of the car. My salivary glands have sprung into action.
He gives a rough shake of his head. His eyes never leave the woman's face and he's listening intently.
I can't tell if the shake is meant for me, or his companion. I step closer.
Go inside.
Culebra issues the order in a tone I've never heard him use before on anyone, let alone me. Cold. Belligerent. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The woman turns again in my direction. Her face is thin, her mouth generous, despite the tight frown. She fixes me with a look designed to scare me or send me fleeing into the safety of the bar. It's a practiced scowl, full of venom.
Biting this one's neck will be a pleasure.
I look at Culebra. Is she kidding?
I don't get the reaction I expect. Culebra actually grabs my arm and propels me through the saloon's swinging doors.
I'm so startled, I let him.
His eyes are on fire. Please, trust me on this. Stay here.
I nod. It's all I can do, I'm still dumbstruck by being manhandled by Culebra. He drops my arm and whirls away from me, back through the doors.
I look around. The place is empty. Unusual. There are always desperados of some sort hanging around. Was it the woman outside that scared them away? Are they cowering in the caves waiting for her to leave?
I take a step toward the door. Culebra didn't tell me I couldn't listen.
Culebra is speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.
Damn. If he was having a telepathic communication with her, I could understand. For some reason, language is no barrier to thought transference. But he's speaking out loud and quickly. Because of me? Does he suspect I'm listening? Dumb question. Of course, he suspects. More than suspects.
I wish I had a better command of the Spanish language. David is fluent. He takes over when the need arises. I can only pick out a few words here and there. Culebra and the woman are arguing, that's obvious, but about what? So far, the words I snatch out of the conversation are disjointed. Someone or something wants to come here. Culebra doesn't want it. The woman is insisting.
And she's threatening him in some way. I don't need to know the words to grasp the implication. She's dangerous. Otherwise, Culebra would have gotten rid of her. Or not allowed her to come to Beso de la Muerte in the first place. His powerful magic would have prevented it.
She's a human and exerting enough pressure on Culebra to force this kind of confrontation. Who is she?
Their conversation teeters back and forth between threat and counterthreat and finally some sort of compromise must be reached because the tone softens into conciliation. I venture a peek outside. Culebra is embracing the woman. His face is to me and his expression is hard. She pulls back and lays a hand against his cheek. Then she walks away, down the steps, toward—what? The only car outside is mine. By the time I've registered that and look around for her, she's gone.
How did she do that?
I start outside, to question Culebra. But he pushes right past me into the saloon. He can't have forgotten I'm here, yet he doesn't so much as glance my way as he makes his way behind the bar. His mind is as black and impenetrable as ever I've experienced. He stoops to take a beer from the cooler, pops the top, and drains the bottle in one long, gurgling swig.
When he reaches for a second, I hold out a hand. "Mind if I join you?"
The sound of my voice startles him. The bottle slips from his hand and crashes to the floor. I jump, too. He stares at me, eyes dull until recognition sparks them back to life.
"Anna. What are you doing here?"
"You're kidding, right? You forget our conversation last night?"
He doesn't respond. And he doesn't look like he's kidding. I jab a thumb toward the door. "Who was that?"
"A friend."
"Friend? I didn’t think so. I may not be able to understand Spanish, but I understand friendship. That was not a friendly conversation. And why are we talking like this? Why don't you let me into your head?"
Culebra presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, as if reinforcing the barrier that's keeping me out. "It's better you don't know about this."
In two steps I'm across the room and beside him at the bar. "You can't be serious. She was threatening you in some way. Do you think I'll let that go?"
Culebra looks up at me and laughs softly. "No. You are too stubborn to do that."
He adds, And not bright enough to know when you should.
He watches for a reaction.
I don't give him the one he expects. You are probably right. So stop fighting it. Tell me what she is.
What she is? Not who?
She felt human. But she disappeared.
Culebra reaches again under the bar. This time when he straightens up he has two bottles of beer in his hand. He pops both tops, comes around, slides onto a bar stool and holds one out to me. When we've both taken a drink, he places his bottle on the bar and swi
vels to face me.
"You are right that she is not entirely human. She calls herself a Wiccan."
The phrase throws me at first, but then I remember what it is. "You mean she is a witch."
"She prefers Wiccan."
Semantics. I recall that Wiccans prefer the other title because "witch" conjures up evil associations. It also conjures up black cats and broomsticks. "So, is that how she did it? She had a broom stashed outside that she hopped on? Off to a Quidditch match maybe?"
But if Culebra catches the reference, he doesn't acknowledge it. Neither does he smile.
"Okay," I say. "Not a Harry Potter fan. But witchcraft is mostly dancing naked in the moonlight and love potions, isn't it? She was threatening you."
Culebra lowers his eyes. "It's not important."
The words are spoken softly, the tone almost indifferent. But the air around us shimmers with negative energy. He's sending me a message in a way he's never done before. He's telling me to back away. It's a threat—but not quite. Ice forms along my spine.
I stare at him, not understanding, not accepting. When he raises his eyes to meet mine, the feeling is gone.
"You must not come back here for a while," he says.
"What?"
"Go home, Anna. I have seen to your needs."
"My needs? What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."
He isn't listening. "I will let you know when it is safe to return."
"Safe? Who the hell was that woman?"
There's no answer. I'm looking right at him.
Then suddenly I'm not.
Because in the blink of an eye, Culebra is gone.
Chapter 10
Just like the woman minutes before, Culebra is gone. Not shape-shifted. I'd see a snake. He's disappeared. I'm so shaken, it takes me a few minutes to get up off the bar stool and search the place. He's not in any of the back rooms.
Could he be in the caves?
I wasn't aware that teleportation was one of his talents.
But then, I just saw a human do the same thing, didn't I?
The path from the saloon to the caves stretches like a dusty ribbon in front of me. I've taken it a hundred times. It's the middle of the day. Why does it seem menacing now?
I swallow down the feeling of trepidation and force myself to set off for the caves. It's eerily quiet. No buzzing of insects, no rodents scurrying for cover at my approach. Even the hum of the generator on Culebra's lighting system is silent. When I reach the entrance, I call out.
There's no answer. Not from Culebra. Not from anyone. Because there is no one at all in the caves. Not one shred of evidence to indicate there was ever anyone in the caves.
I find myself tiptoeing from one chamber to the other in inky darkness, panic so close it sits like a specter on my shoulder. Even the medical supplies are gone, the makeshift hospital nothing but a rock-strewn cavern. This place is a refuge for those under Culebra's protection. David was saved here. There are always twenty or so fugitives hiding from human or otherworldly threats. How did Culebra manage to clear everyone out? Where did he send them? Was Max with them when it happened?
The air is suddenly suffocating, pressing against my chest like a weight. Dank and foul, it seeps into my head like an insidious fog until I can't think.
I have to get out of here. The smell of mesquite and sage and the dry dust of the desert are like a powerful magnet pulling at me. I start to run toward the cave entrance. Even when I'm outside and the sun kisses my skin, I keep running. Back toward the saloon. It looks more forlorn and abandoned than ever. Some instinct tells me I don't want to go back in there until Culebra is back, too. So I skirt around it, head for my car. When I'm inside, when I manage to still the shaking of my hands long enough to fit the key into the ignition and crank it over, I glance into the rearview mirror.
A shadow moves across the road behind me.
I swivel around to take a closer look.
A dark shape, floating, ethereal. How could something as inconsequential as smoke exude such a feeling of menace?
Then, the shadow, too, is gone and all that's left is my fear.
Chapter 11
My foot jams the accelerator and the Jag lurches forward as if it, too, can't wait to get away.
I don't scare easily. Didn't when I was human, and as a vampire, I can count on one hand the number of times my skin has crawled the way it is now.
But what just happened is freaking me out.
A human woman disappears into thin air. Culebra gone, his hideout emptied. A shadow not cast by anything I could see, moving of its own volition across the road and into the desert. A feeling that I'm being driven out of Beso de la Muerte by a malevolent spirit that hovers just out of reach, ready to manifest itself if I should make the mistake of turning back.
I don't. I'm not sure I could.
The panic recedes as I drive farther away from Beso de la Muerte. My grip on the steering wheel relaxes, my head clears, my heart rate slows. The relief is enormous. Brain function returns, rational thinking creeps back, though each thought unfolds slowly like a paper ball released from a tight fist.
Culebra disappeared.
I had no idea shape-shifters could do that.
I chew on the possibility all the way back to San Diego. I know one other shape-shifter, Daniel Frey, but it's a weekday and he'll be teaching now. I'm not going to interrupt his class with my questions. I have too damned many.
I can drop in on him at his condo later.
Which leads me back to why I went to Beso de la Muerte in the first place.
The need to rid myself of Fisher's blood. I can't wait much longer. If I play my cards right, Frey will let me feed from him. We've done it before. It also occurs to me that the panic I felt in Beso de la Muerte might have something to do with the bad blood circulating in my system. I learned the hard way that it's not good to wait too long after feeding from a rogue to cleanse myself. It's vampire dialysis. A dose of untainted blood purges the toxins. And like dialysis, the longer you go without it, the harder it is to separate out the bad stuff and flush it away.
But I've always counted on Culebra. What am I going to do now? He's the link to my blood supply.
The thought sends another chill up my back.
I have no idea when I'll see him again.
My cell phone rings just as I pull into my garage.
I flip it open. "Anna Strong."
There's a moment of dead air before an unfamiliar voice whispers, "Tell your boyfriend. I'm coming."
Then the connection is cut.
It takes me a moment to process what I just heard. When I realize I should check the caller ID, I find the number is restricted. Of course. You can never use star 69 when you need to. I snap the phone closed and toss it into my bag.
Then I get mad.
More than mad. Furious. Because I have a strong feeling I know who made that call. Foley. Counting on spooking me into calling Max or even better, going to see him. Instinct tells me he's sneaky enough to try something like this.
I head into my cottage, looking around for a car I don't recognize. My home is on one of those small streets in Mission Beach where there is no motor vehicle access in front so all the garages open onto an alley. I know everyone on my block. There's not an unfamiliar car in sight.
So, he's probably somewhere on Mission Boulevard
. No use looking there. It's one of the most popular beach thoroughfares in San Diego, fronted with restaurants, boutiques, bike and surf shops.
The tumblers on the lock to my back door fall into place with the turn of the key. I push inside, pausing to savor the one good thing in this bitch of a day—my home. The kitchen is filled with sunlight, the air smells of coffee and cinnamon. I toss my purse on the counter and head for the stairs.
Into darkness.
I stop at the foot of the staircase. Someone has pulled the curtains closed, down here and upstairs, too.
I tilt my head, listening. Nothin
g. I sniff the air. Under the aroma of coffee and the tang of salt air, is something else. Something I hadn't noticed at first. Musk. Testosterone. Senses springing to life, I breathe it in. It's human, I smell the blood. And male.
Is this what Culebra meant when he said he'd taken care of my needs?
But he doesn't have access to my house.
Does he?
I don't care.
Noiseless as a cat, I run up the stairs. Every molecule in my body vibrates in anticipation. I know whoever is here, was sent for one purpose. I know it without understanding, just as I know I'll take what I need and be whole again.
Thank you, Culebra.
He's in my bedroom, asleep. I hear deep, regular breathing. When I approach the bed, I can only make out a form under the covers. He's on his side, his face turned away from me. I'm shaking with need and sudden lust.
I want more than blood.
I strip off my clothes and slide under the covers. He doesn't stir. Should I say something? No. Culebra sent him. He is here for one purpose.
I abandon thought, close my eyes, lose myself in pure tactile sensation. I fit my naked body against his, slide a hand around his waist, breasts pressed against a broad back, thighs cupped around buttocks. I move my hand down a flat abdomen, skim rock-hard thighs, come to rest between his legs.
He's awake now, I sense it, but he doesn't move. He lets my hands arouse him, moans softly in pleasure. I'm on fire. I position myself so that my mouth is at his neck. I want to take him inside me when I feed, but the thirst is too great. I can't help myself, can't stop the hunger from taking over. I open his neck.
Blood flows into my mouth, into my being, flooding me with warmth and consolation. Relief and release. Peace. I feel all Fisher's negative energy fade until he is no longer a part of me. My host feels it, too, the euphoria, the joy. His body burrows against mine, seeking greater closeness, wanting more. This is why humans offer themselves to vampires. We are not yet united physically, but currents of desire shake him as I feed.
The first primal hunger satisfied, I begin to stroke him.
The Watcher Page 5