“Wish I could have been there to see it.” He takes a sip of his wine, tilts his head, studies me. “I think he’s jealous.”
“What?”
“I think he has the hots for you.”
“He hates me,” I reply with a snort. “And he’s married.”
Lance’s turn to snort. “He’s a male, isn’t he? He’s got a dick. Why else would he disrespect a guy he doesn’t know?”
He tightens his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think about the rest of the story? The vampires turning up drained?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know why he came to me with it. I don’t know what he expects me to do.”
Lance interprets my chagrin. “Do you think he wants you to come back to the fold? Help him track whoever or whatever is doing this?”
I snuggle against his chest. “If he thinks I’d work with him after all we’ve been through, he’s delusional. He’s got the Watchers to figure it out.” I let my hand slide to the bulge between his legs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. There must be something more pleasant for us to do.”
He laughs and gives me a nudge. “Let’s get you into the shower. Wash away the bar stink first. Then we’ll see what comes up.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice.
SOMEBODY SAID THE SEXIEST ORGAN IN THE BODY IS the brain. Must have been a vamp. It isn’t possible to explain how much of a turn-on it is to be able to feel your partner’s desire and react to it without relying on words. Lance and I don’t have to tell each other what we want. We feel it. We anticipate it.
The air around us becomes charged. First in the shower, then after, again, in bed, the shock of him runs through me like a current. I welcome him into my body, into my head, and it’s more than sharing a moment of physical need. It’s allowing him into my soul.
It’s the second bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.
ONCE AGAIN, LANCE IS GONE WITH THE FIRST LIGHT of day. This time he’s leaving for New York. Abercrombie & Fitch tagged him for their new winter catalog and the shoot will last a week.
I start to miss him before the door snicks closed.
With his departure, exasperation comes flooding back. Exasperation that Culebra could pull such a dirty trick. Exasperation that Sandra wouldn’t even talk to me. Exasperation that Williams still thinks he can jerk me around.
I look around for a distraction.
The Sunday paper is spread out on the coffee table. I never got the chance to go through it yesterday. I have a mug of coffee in my hand so I settle my butt on the couch. Lance’s lingering scent is still in the air and that ’s enough of a distraction in itself that I’m only paying half attention as I leaf through the pages when an article in the business section catches my eye.
The article is about a local cosmetics firm about to make a big splash. But it ’s not the product that catches my eye, it’s the picture of David’s ex, Gloria Estrella, standing beside the president of the firm, a woman named Simone Tremaine. Gloria is to be the spokesmodel for the new product Eternal Youth, a revolutionary antiaging cream (according to the article), and the launch party is in two weeks at Gloria’s restaurant.
It makes me smile. How appropriate for the queen of vanity to be involved in something like antiaging. She’s probably already ordered a lifetime supply.
I take a closer look at the picture. Gloria looks good. Evidently, she’s recovered from her brush with the law. The last time I saw her she had been charged with the murder of her business partner, Rory O’Sullivan. My dad and I helped to get those charges dropped by pointing the police in a different direction. O’Sullivan sold the rights to a formula for an AIDS cure right out from under the noses of his board of directors. Bad move. One director in particular took exception to being cut out of a billion-dollar deal. He hadn’t read the fine print in his contract. O’Sullivan owned the rights to the formula and when a foreign government offered him a huge amount of money, he took the quick and easy way out. Unfortunately, being greedy had a price. His life.
So far, I haven’t received a thank-you note from Gloria. But to be honest, she has lived up to part of the bargain. I agreed to investigate if she’d agree to cut David loose.
Given that David is right this minute vacationing on Paradise Island with a hot real -estate developer he met while looking for investment property, I’d say it’s worked out pretty well.
I’ve finished the paper and my coffee and since it’s a cloudy gray Monday and Lance is gone and I can’t think of anything better to do, I fall back on the last thing I ever want to do—cleaning and laundry.
The vacuum is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, my laundry is divided into whites and colors and Creedence is blasting on the CD player when my cell phone rings.
I dive for the remote to mute CCR and flip open the phone.
This time I recognize the number—from yesterday.
“Culebra.” Coldness creeps into my voice, anger at him for yesterday bubbling to the surface. “That was a fast trip.”
“No. It’s Sandra.”
Sandra? I draw a quick, sharp breath. “What are you doing calling from Culebra’s cell phone? Is he back?”
There’s the briefest hesitation before she replies, “Yes. You need to get down here, Anna. Culebra is ill. I think he’s dying.”
CHAPTER 9
IN ONE HOUR, I’M PARKED IN FRONT OF THE BAR. Everything I did to get here—getting dressed, getting in the car, racing over—was done in a haze. I kept hearing the sound of Sandra’s voice when she said Culebra was dying.
All the rancor I felt yesterday, all the anger and disap pointment is forgotten.
Culebra can’t be dying.
The street is empty. As soon as my feet touch the ground, I’m hit with a curious flutter of energy. Not positive. Not negative. Stinging my skin like pinpricks of electricity.
It gets stronger when I step inside the bar. There’s a sound now, too, a hum. It settles in the middle of my chest and makes my heart race. I press my hand to my chest, fighting the urge to turn and flee.
Where is everyone?
There’s no one behind the bar. It’s littered with empty glasses and a few beer bottles. Most half full, scattered randomly, as if discarded in a hurry.
No customers. No Sandra.
I call her name.
No answer.
I go all the way to the back door—open all the feeding room doors, and still, I find no one.
Uneasiness slithers up my spine.
Could they be in the caves?
There’s a path that leads from the bar to an outcropping of rock about half a mile away. An easy run. I ’ve been here before and know what to expect. The rock hides the entrance to a warren of tunnels—living quarters for the inhabitants of Beso de la Muerte.
I peer inside. The interior is lit with a string of electric lamps. I listen. I don’t hear or sense anyone but the inexplicable hum I first heard in the bar. I hug the wall, following it until there’s a fork, about a quarter of a mile in. The whine is louder and the feeling of static on my skin is stronger. Pressure in my chest builds.
“Sandra?” I call again, panic very close.
This time, I hear a scuffling of feet. A man appears. I recognize him. He took care of David when I brought him here after Avery ’s attack. He’s an American—a doctor whose license was stripped in the States—human, blond, thin. Thinner than the last time I saw him.
He was a junkie then and from the looks of him, is a junkie still.
But he helped David. I hold out my hand. “I’m Anna.”
“I remember.” He shakes my hand and gestures for me to follow him. “Culebra is back here.”
I follow him deeper into the cave. I don’t detect any other presence. Since there are usually human and supernatural criminals of one type or another granted sanctuary by Culebra, it’s unusual.
“Are we alone?”
“Sandra sent everyone away. She thought it wo
uld be safer.”
He says it over his shoulder, still walking back into the bowels of the cave. He stops finally and gestures me inside. Into a ward set up like a MASH unit with stainless-steel gurneys and IV racks. There’s a cabinet along the back wall, a refrigerator and a makeshift lab counter with a centrifuge and a couple of beakers. No monitors. No fancy equipment.
Culebra is laid out on one of the gurneys. He is pale, barely breathing. When I try to get into his head, to read what happened to him, I get nothing but faint static, like a radio signal too far from its transmitter.
What is coming through is a stronger vibration, a louder hum emanating from his body and centering in my own chest. My heart thumps with disturbing irregularity against my ribs. My hand presses against my sternum as if to ease the pounding, but there’s no pain.
“You feel it, too, don’t you?”
The voice at my shoulder makes me jump. Sandra has joined us.
“Do you?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “No. But Culebra complained about pressure in his chest before he collapsed.”
I look up at the doctor. “Did he have a heart attack?” Am I about to have one?
A shrug. “I don’t think so. His blood tests don’t indicate heart problems. Frankly, the tests I performed don’t indicate anything wrong at all.”
I glance back at the granite slab that serves as a lab bench. Can ’t imagine any tests performed here would be inclusive or extensive enough to rule out much of anything. “Should we take him to a hospital?”
Sandra answers before the doctor. “No hospitals. Culebra was very clear about it. Before he lost consciousness he said to tell you that, Anna.”
I turn back toward Culebra, lying pale and still on the cot. “He said he was catching a plane. How did he get back here?”
Sandra places her hand on the edge of his cot. “I found him this morning when I came to open the bar. He was lying outside on the street. I don’t know how he got there. He couldn’t tell me.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Only a name,” Sandra answers. “Belinda Burke.”
Only a name. My insides recoil.
He wasn’t lying about going away. He was lying about what he was going to do. He was going after Belinda Burke, a powerful witch who killed an innocent in retaliation for our stopping one of her rituals. He must have located her. If he found her, why didn ’t he tell me?
We’d agreed to go after her together. I have my own powerful reasons for exacting revenge. Culebra knew that.
Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Accepting the fact that he didn’t want my help is bad enough. Worse yet is the realization that if Culebra found her, what he is suffering from is likely no human illness at all. It’s the result of a spell. Burke practices black magic. Modern medicine will be useless against it.
The doctor has been listening to Culebra’s heart through a stethoscope. He is frowning and shaking his head. When he catches my eye, he says, “His heartbeat is erratic. I don’t know how long he can last.”
His words galvanize me into action. I grab my cell phone. “I know someone who can help.”
Daniel Frey picks up on the second ring. He’s a teacher and when I explain why I’m calling, he doesn’t berate me for calling him at school or interrupting his class. He simply asks to speak with the doctor.
I hand the phone to the doctor and listen as he describes Culebra’s symptoms to Frey. When he’s finished, he gives the phone back to me.
Frey says, “I have to line up a substitute. Then I’ll take a cab home and get what I need. Can you pick me up in ninety minutes?” Frey doesn’t drive.
“I’ll be there.”
I’ve learned a lot since becoming vampire. One of the most surprising is how close -knit and supportive the supernatural community is when it comes to caring for its own. There are exceptions, Williams and his animosity toward me for one. And yet, even he came to Beso de la Muerte to warn me about the vampire slayers. I’m sure he regrets it now.
So when I pull up, I’m not shocked to find Daniel Frey already waiting, standing at the gate to his condo unit. He’s dressed in jeans, a Tshirt. He’s fortysomething, has salt-and-pepper hair, a good smile, a lean build. He’s carrying two large tote bags. He lays them carefully on the backseat, then joins me in the front.
“Tell me,” he says without preamble. “Has there been any change?”
I gun away from the curb and fill him in. I also tell him who and what I believe is responsible.
Frey, a shape-shifter like Culebra, was with me when we had our run in with Burke. In fact, she shot him and came close to killing him.
He has an extensive library of books on the supernatural. I called him because I know that if he doesn ’t have an idea himself how to help Culebra, he will know which book to consult.
He listens carefully, then reaches into the backseat and does pull a book from one of the totes.
“I can’t reverse the spell,” he says, thumbing pages. “But I can arrest the symptoms. For a while.”
“How can we break it?”
“We can’t. Only another witch can.”
Shit. How do I find another witch?
Frey is still looking through his book. Unlike Culebra, I can’t read his mind. I broke our psychic connection when I bit him once. Dumb mistake with long-term consequences.
I give him a few minutes before I ask, “What do you think?”
He releases a breath. “I think we’d better find a witch.”
Culebra didn’t tell me where he was going. When we met yesterday he had papers with him. Are they at the bar? Did he tell Sandra? I remember seeing a map but I was too aggravated at the time to take note of what it was for. Could he have marked his destination? Can I retrace his trail back to Burke?
I’ll have to ask Sandra if Culebra had anything with him when he reappeared in Beso de la Muerte.
If not . . . “How do we do that?” I ask. “Where do I find a witch?”
Frey throws me a sideways glance and says, “Go see Williams.”
My shoulders bunch. “Why?”
“Because he has witches on his payroll. You should know that.”
Shit again. I don’t tell Frey about my last meeting with Williams. Besides, what difference does it make? Saving Culebra is the important thing. If I have to see Williams to help him, I’ll see Williams.
As soon as we’re back at Culebra’s bedside, Frey gets to work. He’s brought potions and candles and some kind of crystal that he shatters against the floor and places in fragments around the cot.
As he sets up, I turn to Sandra. “Did Culebra have anything with him when he got back last night? Papers? A map?”
She shakes her head. “No. He had nothing with him.”
The sound of Frey’s voice draws us both to Culebra’s bedside. He’s mumbling an incantation in a language I don’t understand. As he speaks the words, the pressure in my own chest subsides. After a few minutes, he motions for the doctor to check Culebra’s heart.
The doctor listens, then nods. “Much better. How long can it hold?”
Frey slumps into a seat beside the cot. “As long as Burke doesn’t realize what we’ve done,” he says. “When she does, she’ll adjust the magic and I’ll have to start the counterspell all over again.”
I’ve been so intent on Culebra, I hadn’t noticed the change in Frey. His face is pale, drawn.
“Are you going to be all right?” I ask.
“Magic always exacts a price,” he says. His hands tremble in his lap. He interlocks his fingers and looks up at me. “Go see Williams.
Find us a witch.”
“I don’t think I should leave you.”
Frey shakes his head. “I’ll be all right. The sooner you get to Williams, the better.”
I search Frey’s face. I know he’s right. The way I left things with Williams yesterday, I doubt he’d take my phone call. He’ll want to see me grovel. And if that doesn’t do
it and I need to persuade him to use his supernatural connections, in person would be best.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 10
AT LEAST I KNOW WHERE TO FIND WILLIAMS. Since he’s quit the human police force, he’s gone to work full-time for the supernatural one. His headquarters is underground in the middle of one of the country’s most popular tourist attractions, Balboa Park, in the middle of one of the most popular tourist destinations, San Diego.
I know because I used to come here as a Watcher. Back when I was learning what it meant to be vampire. Back when I thought Williams was a friend who had my best interest at heart. I wanted a mentor; he wanted an enforcer. Someone to help keep the supernatural bad guys in line. He thought I was perfect for the job. And his way might be easier—find a rogue and eliminate him—but at least what I do as a bounty hunter doesn’t involve being judge, jury and executioner.
It’s late in the afternoon and there are lots of people around. I still get a little nervous when I attempt to access the place, even though it’s protected by powerful magic. I don’t understand how it works, I probably wouldn’t be able to understand it if it were explained to me, but I’m standing across from The Natural History Museum and I take one step past a stone bench into some bushes and suddenly I ’m not visible to the throngs passing by on a sidewalk ten feet away.
I’ve disappeared. Through a veil that feels wet and cold against the skin.
The door in front of me is locked. I fish a big brass key out of the depths of my purse and fit it into the lock.
I turn it.
Nothing happens.
At first, I think I must have turned the key the wrong way so I try it again.
Nothing happens.
I pull the key back and examine it. It looks the same as it did the last time I used it. Why won’t it work now?
After the fourth unsuccessful attempt, a thought dawns on me. You need to be invited to access this place. Williams, in a fit of anger or resentment, may have revoked my invitation.
Damn him.
I step back onto the sidewalk, barely avoiding a toddler walking on unsteady legs a few feet in front of her parents. The adults don ’t notice that I’ve just materialized out of nowhere but the kid does. She plops down on her bottom and starts to cry, which garners me dirty looks from her parents. I step gingerly around them and head for the fountain in the center of the quad a few yards away, yanking my cell phone out of my handbag.
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