“A cousin?” My fingers touch the charm. “What was her name?”
“Sophie Burke. Best damned caterer in Denver. She died not too long ago.”
Shit. If Sophie Burke is dead, what connection does Belinda have to Sophie Deveraux? There must be some reason she kept that telephone number.
Turnbull is rambling on, “Sophie’s said to be a strange bird. Keeps to herself. Doesn ’t get involved in the human or supernatural community. For inheriting such vast wealth, she’s kept a remarkably low profile.” His eyes hold mine, then slide away. “Gives you and Sophie something in common.”
The usual rush to deny claiming any part of Avery’s fortune is tempered by the reality that I just arrived in Avery’s private jet. I focus on the scenery.
We’re winding through tree-lined streets, past properties that must cost tens of millions of dollars. The silence in the car is oppressive.
Makes me think of how much I have to lose if this turns out to be another wild-goose chase. I turn to Turnbull. Even small talk is better than what I’m thinking.
“What about you? Williams said you’ve lived in Denver for over a hundred years. How have you managed it?”
He looks surprised by the question, but then he smiles and shrugs. “I ‘kill’ myself off in various ways every forty or fifty years and introduce a new heir. A few makeup tricks, a change in hair color and styles, colored contacts. ” He pats his chest. “Padding to change body shape. It’s not so hard really.”
“And no one notices?”
“I have an entire gallery of ‘family portraits’ showing the remarkable Turnbull family resemblance.”
“And do you also keep a low profile?”
“I’m a philanthropist. Made my fortune in mining. I manage a foundation, attend a few charity functions, but mostly I keep to myself. I have a ranch outside of Durango. My house here in Denver is closed most of the year.”
“Sounds like you’ve made a good life for yourself.”
My voice must have a wistful ring to it, because Turnbull raises an eyebrow. No reason why you can’t do the same thing. A laugh bubbles up. Or not. Williams seems to think you have a death wish. Is that true? You really choose to live as a human?
“I think this is it, Mr. Turnbull.”
The driver’s voice saves me from either confirming or denying Williams’ charge. Death wish? Seems to me I’ve had to defend my life more since becoming vampire than I ever did as a human.
The driver has pulled to a stop at the junction to an unpaved road that skirts the back of several of the larger properties. Sophie Deveraux’s is one of them. I get out to take a look around.
The Deveraux property sits on about ten acres of rolling pastureland. I can just see the back of the stable from our vantage point. The same iron fence that surrounds the front of the house extends back this way.
Turnbull has gotten out, too, and comes to stand beside me.
“I’m going in,” I tell him. “Give me fifteen minutes. If I’m not back, call Williams and tell him there was trouble.”
Turnbull’s expression darkens. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
No. I’m not. If this Sophie turns out to be another dead end, I’ve squandered more than time. I’ve squandered the remaining hours of Culebra’s life.
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeat. “Then call Williams.”
If I don’t come back by then, I’m most likely dead. Culebra and Frey are, too, if Williams can ’t find a way to prevent it. The only consolation is that Ortiz’ death has given Williams a personal stake in finding Burke. If I can’t save them, I know he’ll try.
It’s a small comfort.
“We’ll be right here,” Turnbull adds, reading my thoughts but not commenting on them. “Be careful.” His voice suddenly has an edge, an urgency, as if he understands.
I wonder if he now questions why I choose to live as a human.
CHAPTER 41
IT TAKES LITTLE EFFORT TO JUMP THE FENCE. I RUN past a half dozen horses grazing in the pasture. They shy away from me, ears back, eyes wild. I can’t tell if it’s the human Anna or the vampire that’s spooking them.
When I get close to the stables, I keep out of sight of the open barn door. I can’t hear or sense anyone inside, but I don’t want to take a chance. A hundred yards from the stables is a patio area. There’s a pool, a cabana and what looks like a guesthouse.
Nice digs.
I crouch behind a hedge and scan the roofline. I don ’t see a security camera back here. Curious, although I suppose if the house belonged to a vampire, he may not have felt he needed one.
The ground floor of the house is a long rambling affair. The only entrance seems to be a pair of French doors opening from the house onto the patio. There are two huge ceramic pots, one on each side of the doors, planted with five -foot-tall evergreens. Perfect cover to check out the inside.
At first glance, all I see is furniture. It ’s a living room, formal, with two oversized couches and a heavy, dark wood coffee table occupying the middle of the room. To the right is a fireplace. To the left, a credenza. Sunlight flashes off a silver tea set displayed on a lower shelf.
I move in to try the door.
That’s when I realize there’s someone in the room. I duck back but the woman is unaware of my presence. She ’s standing in the shadows under an archway in the back of the room, facing away from me. She ’s agitated, hands waving, shoulders stiff, weight evenly distributed on both feet as if ready to fend off an attack. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I can’t see anyone else in the room.
Is she on a telephone?
My fingers once again find their way to the charm around my neck. Nothing. No warning blast of heat.
Whoever the woman is, she’s not Burke, nor does Burke seem to be in the vicinity.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or thankful.
But it does spur me into action. I have about ten minutes before Turnbull calls Williams. I move to the door and knock.
Startled, the woman jumps and whirls around. She steps into the light.
I find myself staring at one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Not in the traditional sense. Her hair looks windblown, like she may have just come inside, and her features are far from perfect. But she has a glow about her. A natural beauty that radiates from within. It ’s captivating. It’s magnetic. It’s mesmerizing.
Turnbull said she might be a witch.
It’s probably magic.
I shake away the wonder and take a more dispassionate look. She’s not particularly tall, maybe five feet four, but well built and slender.
She’s dressed in jeans, an open-neck shirt of pale yellow and leather riding boots. Her hair is shoulder length, dark and straight, framing thick-lashed blue eyes and a generous mouth.
Right now the mouth is turned down at the corners. She comes to the door and yanks it open. “Yes?”
“Are you Sophie Deveraux?”
She’s staring at me. “Who are you? How did you get back here?”
Seeing her up close, I realize she couldn’t be more than twenty, yet there’s an old soul quality to her that comes through. A maturity of spirit that makes her seem older than her years.
It sends a tremor straight through me. Shit. Is she one of Burke’s customers? Is that why her number was in the file?
“Do you know Simone Tremaine?”
The frown becomes deeper, sterner. “Why do you ask?”
“Look, Ms. Deveraux, I need you to talk to me. If you’re one of Tremaine’s customers, you are in danger. The product you’ve been using has some nasty side effects. I can help you, but you’ve got to tell me if you know where she is.”
A subtle change comes over her. A stillness. She turns away from me and walks into the middle of the room.
I’m right on her heels. “Please. You are not the only one in danger. Tremaine ’s product has already resulted in three deaths, maybe more. She’s a monster. If you know where
she’s hiding, you have to tell me.”
“Only three?”
She says it so quietly, I lean close. “What?”
She turns to face me. “Only three deaths? You mean human deaths, right? But there have been others, haven’t there?”
She asks the question as if already knowing the answer.
“Yes. Twelve.”
“Vampires? Like you?”
Her directness at first startles me, then I throw it back at her. “Yes. She tortured and killed them. She bled them. Do you know why?”
Now there’s another shift. Nothing overt, but it’s there in the slump of her shoulders, the softening lines of her mouth. Resignation? She looks away.
“For the cream.” I touch her cheek. “For the magic that turned you from what—a middle-aged housewife—to this. Was it worth it?”
Then Sophie Deveraux does the last thing I expect. She sinks into a chair and begins to cry.
I park myself in front of her and take her chin in my hand.
“I know you’re a witch. I know you’ve used the cream. I have to find Simone Tremaine. I’m desperate. Do you think you can help me do that? Maybe there’s something you know about it that can help me locate her? Some supernatural marker we can use to track her?”
She nods, tentatively, tears still welling in her eyes.
“You are my last chance. If you want to grab a jacket or change clothes, this would be the time.”
She turns those china blue eyes on me. “I don’t need anything. I’ll come with you.”
My cell phone rings. Sophie and I both jump. I fish it out of my jacket. “Yes?”
“Turnbull just called me. What’s going on?”
It’s Williams. “I found Sophie Deveraux. I’m going to bring her back to San Diego. Burke isn’t here, but Sophie has agreed to help us locate her. Call Turnbull and tell him to come to the front gate to pick us up.”
I disconnect, then call the pilot at the hotel. I tell him to get the jet ready, that we ’re on our way to the airport. If he’s surprised at the quick turnaround, his voice doesn’t reflect it. I ring off and shove the phone into my pocket.
It should take about ten minutes for the car to make its way to the front gate.
Sophie sits up in the chair and squares her shoulders. “Have you stopped her from draining them?”
The way she asks it raises goose bumps on my arms. “Yes. We stopped what she was doing with the cream.”
“I’m glad.”
“How did you know about it?”
She stands up. “Because Simone Tremaine is my sister and the cream was my idea.”
CHAPTER 42
I PEER AT THE PERFECT FACE, THE INNOCENCE THAT shines from her eyes. This young girl came up with a plan to bleed vampires to death for the sake of a damned a cosmetic? It doesn’t seem possible. Is she telling the truth?
She releases a breath. “Simone is my sister, but her real name is Belinda Burke. I think you knew that though, didn’t you?”
Not all of it.
I’m immediately suspicious. “Your name is Sophie Deveraux. Not Burke. A friend told me you were a relative of the Jonathan Deveraux who used to live here. How could you be Belinda Burke’s sister?”
A small, sad smile tips the corners of her mouth. “It’s a long story. I’ll—”
There’s a buzz from somewhere in the back of the house. Sophie pauses. “I think your friends are here.”
A Latino housekeeper appears in the doorway. She looks surprised to see that her mistress is not alone. She says something to Sophie in Spanish and Sophie answers. I understand enough to know her housekeeper just announced Turnbull’s arrival. Sophie tells her to open the gate.
Then she turns to me. “It’s time to go.”
She’s not resisting the idea that I want her to come with me. It’s surprising, if she’s the mastermind behind the whole scheme. Still, it’s better than having to drag her kicking and screaming. I keep my eyes on her as she leads the way through a maze of rooms to the front door. If she’s cloaking great power, she’s doing a good job of it.
The limo is right outside the front door. The housekeeper accompanies us, speaking to Sophie in rapid-fire Spanish. I pick up from her expression and the timbre of her voice that she’s afraid for her mistress, mistrustful of the woman with “ojos salvajes” who appeared from nowhere and is now taking her away.
Sophie throws me a calculated glance, reads that I understood most of what the woman was saying and replies with a few reassuring words to her before walking down the steps to the car.
The remark about the “wild-eyed” woman, though, goes unchallenged.
Turnbull is standing outside the car, passenger door open. When Sophie slips in ahead of me, he gives me a raised -eyebrow look and asks, That’s Sophie Deveraux?
Any reason to doubt it?
She’s a lot younger than I imagined. A spell?
Or another satisfied customer.
IT’S A QUIET RIDE BACK TO CENTENNIAL AIRPORT. I have many questions to ask Sophie, but I don’t want to ask them in front of Turnbull. I don’t trust him.
Turnbull keeps to himself, too. He doesn’t introduce himself to Sophie. Afraid, maybe, that if he does and they meet at some charity function in the future, she’ll remember. I’m sure he’s relieved that he’s not been asked to dispose of a body. The sooner he gets Sophie alive and on that plane, the better.
The silence gives me a chance to study Sophie. There’s something—an unidentifiable quality—about her that’s unusual. Every once in a while, she gets an expression on her face that makes me think she’s listening to—what? Her focus turns inward. If she were vampire, I’d say she was reading Turnbull or me. She’s not vampire. I’m certain of it. I’d have recognized it when I saw her for the first time. She was startled and had no chance to put up psychic defenses.
It’s creepy. Could Sophie Deveraux be psychotic? Does she hear those kind of voices?
She knew Tremaine was Burke. She knew about the deaths from the cream. She says she came up with the idea. With her sister.
My hands curl into fists. They itch to get her alone on that plane, to find out what else she knows.
The jet is primed and ready when we pull onto the airstrip. I say good-bye to Turnbull. It doesn’t take long. He’s as glad to be rid of me as he is Sophie. I thank him for helping me find Sophie. I mean it, too. Saved me from hassling with a GPS system on a rental car.
He’s gone before we take off.
He doesn’t ask me back for a visit.
Once aboard, Sophie slips into a seat and belts herself in. She’s neither curious nor impressed by the plane.
Probably has one just like it.
Lawson comes back to greet us. He gives us a weather update and tells us we’ll be on our way in ten minutes.
I wait until we’re airborne and he’s given us the okay to move about the cabin. I tell him we won’t be needing anything and don’t want to be disturbed. Then I unbuckle my seat belt and swivel my seat to face the girl.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Who are you?”
Sophie squares herself in the seat. Resolute blue eyes look into mine. “My name was Sophie Burke. Belinda is my sister.”
“You call yourself Sophie Deveraux. Jonathan Deveraux was vampire. You assumed a new identity, set yourself up as heir to his estate.
Why?”
If she really is the bitch Burke’s sister, I expect her answer will have to do with distancing herself from the black-magic witch.
Instead, Sophie smiles. “Black-magic witch. She is that, yes. But that’s not the reason I became Sophie Deveraux.”
I jerk upright in the seat. There’s no mistaking it this time. She does hear voices. She heard mine.
What are you?
What do you think I am?
The voice is masculine, touched with a hint of an accent, like Turnbull ’s, faintly southern. It’s coming from inside Sophie but it’s not Sophie speaking. Gooseflesh raises icy
bumps on my arms.
The memory of another male voice addressing me from a female form plunges me into a nightmare.
Avery. That time it was Avery and the female was Sandra.
Dread roots me to the spot. I’m trapped at twenty thousand feet with something I can’t identify and rising panic. Has Avery done it again? Did he manage to escape from Sandra? Is he here on his own plane to exact revenge?
Who’s Avery? I thought you were the Big Bad.
The voice this time is diffused with curiosity and a hint of humor.
It’s laughing at me.
Not a good idea. Anger replaces panic, cracking the shell of fear paralyzing me and allowing the vampire to break free. The growl and hiss erupt from the dark place determined to protect itself.
I’ll ask you one more time. What are you?
It’s Sophie who answers after a moment’s hesitation. “Sorry, Ms. Strong,” she says with quiet resignation. “I should have told you.” She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, down the length of her body. “I’m not exactly alone in here. You’ve been talking with my alter ego, Jonathan Deveraux.”
CHAPTER 43
A VISCERAL RUSH OF ALARM SWALLOWS THE ANGER. A hundred questions pop into my head. The most important, because of Sandra and Avery, raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Did he take you by force? Is he holding you against your will?”
A sad, slow smile touches her lips. “I wish I could answer yes.” She sighs. “But I can’t. I did this to myself.
“How?”
“Curiosity and vanity. A dangerous combination.”
I don’t understand. Is she lying to protect herself? Can this Jonathan Deveraux hurt her the way Avery did Sandra?
Only if I want to hurt myself, too.
I’ve experienced a lot of strange things since becoming vampire. Watching this young girl speak with two distinct voices ranks among the creepiest.
She’s not so young, Deveraux says with a chuckle. Go ahead, Sophie, tell Anna the story.
Sophie stands, begins to pace, stops, turns back to me. “It started as an experiment,” she says. “I’m a witch. To support myself I am—I was—a caterer. I worked the supernatural community. It was a good life. I should have been satisfied.”
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