We don’t speak until the car has left the airport. “The driver has the address?” I ask then, itchy to get on with it.
“Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security.”
I look away, suppress a smile. We might have trouble getting past security? I don’t intend to have any trouble at all.
Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too. Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.
I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams-can-blow-himself reply I’d like to make, I say instead, I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.
He nods. I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.
Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she’s not a woman. She’s a witch. It’s important you don’t forget that.
He’s projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He’s making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation. I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I’m concerned, Turnbull’s only function is as a vampire GPS system. That’s it.
Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I’ve purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He’s not happy to be here.
So why is he?
To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?
TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.
Turnbull raises an eyebrow. I hope you have a plan B.
We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard’s “May I help you,” I’ve launched into the story—the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we’re meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we’re late and she’s going to be waiting for us at—I look at Uncle Bull—what was that address again?
Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux’s address.
The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver’s name and license number and the limo’s license plate. Then he waves us through.
“You’ve done this before,” Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. “What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?”
David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I’m the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.
To Turnbull, I reply, “Place like this isn’t going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He’d have no reason to question us.”
Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks, Tricky bitch, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.
Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he’s no friend of mine.
The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable. There’s no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.
When the driver rings, there is a moment’s delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, “Yes?”
I lean forward to be able to answer. “I’m looking for Sophie Deveraux.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Anna Strong.”
“And your business with Ms. Deveraux?”
“Private.”
The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.
The disembodied voice returns with the message, “I’m sorry, Ms. Deveraux is not at home. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. I’ll try again later.”
Turnbull looks relieved. He instructs the driver to turn around. Once we’re back on the road, I tell the driver to pull over.
“Why are you telling him to stop?” Turnbull asks, voice tense with irritation.
I ignore him and instruct the driver. “Find the access road that runs behind the property.”
Turnbull raises a hand. “Wait a minute. What makes you think there’s an access road?”
“There’s a stable in back. I didn’t see anyway to get to it from the driveway so there’s bound to be another way in. A delivery entrance.”
The driver looks to Turnbull, unsure how to proceed.
Frustration burns through me. “Look, one way or the other, I’m getting into that house. I’ll get out right here and walk if I have to.”
He glares at me a minute before waving the driver on.
“What the hell is it with you? I thought you were supposed to help me.”
Turnbull’s jaw is set, his shoulders bunched. “I have lived here since the beginning of the nineteenth century. I have roots that go deep in this community. I don’t need trouble. I wasn’t happy when Williams called, but I owed him a favor. I’m telling you now, I won’t be a party to killing.”
So Williams told him the purpose of my “visit.” I understand Turnbull’s reluctance to get involved. This is his home turf and we’re dragging him into a fight that could easily turn nasty.
“Look, I’ll try to keep you out of it. You’ve gotten me this far. If you want to drop me off and leave, I’m sure I can find my way back to the airport.”
His shoulders relax a little, but not his apprehension. I can taste it in the air. “We’re here now,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
Not a ringing endorsement of cooperation, but better than nothing. “This Sophie Deveraux, do you know anything about her?”
He shakes his head. “Not much. She’s the last living relative of Jonathan Deveraux—a cousin five generations removed. Sole heir to his fortune, so the story goes. Deveraux was a vampire. A nasty bastard according to the stories. He was killed at his one hundred fiftieth birthday party. By his wife. She disappeared not long after. Rumor has it this Sophie had something to do with it, but there was never any proof. I think it’s safe to assume she’s dangerous.”
“Is she a vampire?”
“Not that I know. There’s been some talk that she may be a witch. One of her cousins was.”
“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 s
hape. 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.
Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution Page 16