Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  Sophie finally speaks once we’re all in the car and Williams has started the engine.

  “I understand what you want me to do. But to reach Belinda, I’ll need a few things.”

  Not Where are we going? or What are you planning to do to me?

  I put a “hold it” hand on Williams’ arm and turn to face her.

  “What do you need?”

  “Black beeswax candles. Herbs. Horehound. Golden-seal. Angelica. Foxglove. I’d prefer fresh, but dried will do. A crystal goblet and holy water.” She lists the items as calmly as a grocery list.

  “What? No fatted calf for sacrifice? ” Aggravation spikes my voice up a few notches. “Where are we supposed to get fresh horehound? Christ. Are you kidding me?”

  It’s Williams’ turn to do the “hold it” thing. “I know.”

  He steers the car out of the parking lot and heads up PCH to Laurel. From there we jump on 5 South. He takes Imperial Avenue to 15 South and exits on National.

  No one has spoken since we left the airport. I break the silence. “Where are we going?”

  Williams is heading into a residential area in a shabby part of town. He navigates the maze of streets with an ease borne of familiarity. He doesn’t answer until we pull up to a tiny, weather-beaten cottage off Thirty-fourth. “Here,” he says.

  The cottage sits on a lot under the freeway. The pollution and dust from the thousands of cars that pass by each day coat the shingles with a gray haze. I couldn’t begin to guess what the original color was. What we can see from the curb is a ramshackle fence and an overgrown yard. Vegetation is so thick, it’s difficult to distinguish one plant from another. The tangle of growth extends around the sides of the house, giving the impression that the cottage is an afterthought planted in the middle of a jungle.

  “This will do nicely.”

  Sophie’s voice from the backseat.

  I turn toward her. The question, “For what?” dies on my lips. Her eyes are shining, fixed on the yard. She has a hand on the door.

  I take another look at the yard. Obviously she sees something I do not.

  Sophie climbs out and goes through the gate, scanning right and left. She stoops and plucks a few leaves from one of the plants, moves to the next, repeats the process.

  “What is this place? ” I ask Williams, following him as he trails behind Sophie.

  Before he can answer, the front door opens. An old woman walks onto the porch. She doesn’t look at Sophie poking through her yard like a bloodhound on the scent. Instead, she looks directly at Williams and me.

  “Your kind are not welcome here,” she says, pointing a skeletal finger. “Get out of my yard.”

  The woman looks a hundred years old, with a wizened, lined face, silver-and-gold-streaked hair drawn up in a bun. She’s stooped-shouldered, supporting her weight on a shiny aluminum walker. But her voice is commanding and her tone sends a chill up my spine.

  Williams bows his head. “Sorry, Mother. We will wait for our friend outside your fence.”

  I don’t know what surprises me more: his gesture of deference to the old woman or the reverence in his tone. My spidey sense is telling me not to argue. I follow him quietly out of the yard.

  When we’re standing beside the car, the old woman limps down the steps, her long black skirt dragging in the dust. She goes to Sophie. The young girl and the old woman look at each other for a moment, not speaking, not communicating in any way I can tell. Then, abruptly, the two embrace, move apart and, arms entwined, stoop together over a patch of weeds.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask. “And what did she mean by our kind not being welcome?”

  Williams leans against the car. “Vampires. Vampires are not welcome here. She’s a crone. Do you know what that is?”

  I rack my brain. I know I’ve heard the term. “Earth mother? Divine feminine? Am I close?”

  “Close.”

  He doesn’t elaborate. When I prod, he adds, “Her name is Eldora. She’s well known in the magical community.”

  Not much in the way of useful information but by the set of his jaw and the curtain drawn around his thoughts, I know it’s all I’m going to get. I try a different tack. “What does she have against vampires?”

  “Immortality. Humans are born, they live, they die. Vampires threaten the cycle, subvert the natural order.”

  Immortality? “Living forever offends her, but blood-sucking does not?”

  His shoulders lift, fall. “Didn’t say it made sense. It’s just the way it is.”

  “What powers does she possess?”

  “None that I know of.”

  That gets a double take from me. “Then why the reverence? You did everything but grovel at her feet.”

  He shoots me a pitying look. “Respect. But I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the concept.”

  The all-too-recognizable deprecating Williams is back. Naturally, my hackles rise. I bite back an angry retort and turn away, focusing on Sophie. She’s still rummaging around the yard, the old woman following behind her. Sophie points to this and that, plucks leaves, crushes them between her fingers. The old woman watches the beautiful young girl with rapt attention.

  An interesting reversal of roles. Wonder if she recognizes the eighty-year-old spirit of Sophie the witch trapped in that young body? Does she sense they are kindred spirits? Wonder what she’d think if Deveraux put in an appearance.

  The attention Williams is paying to Sophie, though, is not as positive. “Do you think we can trust her?” he asks finally.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  His hands ball into fists. “I will avenge Ortiz. Belinda Burke or her sister, makes no difference to me.”

  I don’t say it, but for once, we’re in agreement.

  Impatience nips at my heels. I want to get on with it. Each passing hour brings my friends closer to death. Just when I’m ready to call out to her, Sophie and the crone disappear into the house.

  I lunge at the gate, ready to follow them. I don’t want to let Sophie out of my sight.

  Williams grabs my arm, yanks me to a stop. “She’ll be back. Wait here.”

  I glare at him and pull free. I’ll give her ten minutes.

  She’s out in eight, holding a large grocery bag. She walks toward us, her face wreathed in a smile of satisfaction and pleasure. She climbs into the backseat and waits for us to join her in the car before saying, “What a wonderful place.”

  Deveraux’s sharp voice cuts like a razor. Are you kidding me? Jesus. The place smelled like dinner in a morgue—boiled cabbage and decaying flesh. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  I glance over at Williams, waiting for his reaction to Deveraux’s remark.

  He isn’t reacting. He’s got the car started and half turns to look at Sophie. “Did you get what you needed?”

  Sophie says, “Yes. I have everything.”

  Williams acknowledges her reply by straightening in the seat and steering the car away from the curb.

  You didn’t hear that? I ask him.

  Hear what? What Sophie said? Yes, I heard her.

  I pause, wondering how or if I should tell him about Sophie’s dual personality.

  Why tell him? Deveraux says. He can’t hear me. He may not even believe you. He doesn’t like you. Telling him you’re hearing a vampire’s voice from the body of a witch will just make him distrust you more.

  Hear what? Williams repeats.

  I sit back in the seat. “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER 45

  A HALF DOZEN CARS ARE PARKED IN FRONT OF THE bar when we arrive at Beso de la Muerte. I take it as a good sign. If the bar is open, maybe things aren’t as bad as I suspect.

  I direct Williams to continue along to the back. To the caves.

  When we pull up there, my heart starts to pound. This time it’s not from any residual effects of the spell on Culebra, but because I’m afraid. I couldn’t bring myself to call ahead to let Frey know we were coming. If he answered and Culebra wa
s gone, or worse, if he didn’t answer at all, I’m not sure I could have controlled my wrath.

  Or Williams’ rage.

  Sophie steps out of the car, grocery bag in hand. She follows Williams and me into the cave.

  The quiet wraps around us like a thick blanket. It’s eerie and gooseflesh rises on my arms. The only sound is three distinct footfalls—Sophie’s rubber-soled riding boots, Williams’ hard-soled loafers and my soft-soled tennis shoes. We could be alone in the universe, the feeling of isolation is so complete.

  I’m hoping that’s all it is—a feeling—and that we’re not alone.

  By the time we approach the area where I last saw Frey and Culebra, I’ve worked myself into a state of high anxiety. Chest tight, pulse racing, palms sweaty. I wipe my hands on my jeans and call out.

  “Frey? It’s me, Anna.”

  The words bounce off the cave walls.

  “Frey? Are you here?”

  We round the last corner and I break into a run. Why isn’t he answering?

  Williams and Sophie are right on my heels. I feel their panic and it fuels my own. “Frey? Answer me.”

  We sprint into the ward.

  I skid to a stop.

  The cot is there.

  Empty.

  No.

  I whip around, eyes seeking a clue. They can’t be gone.

  Williams snarls and I whirl toward him. He has Sophie by the arm, the vampire unleashed. “Bring us Burke, witch.” His eyes glow yellow in the dim light. “Or I will kill you right here.”

  Deveraux’s voice reaches out to me. Stop him. It’s not her fault.

  But I won’t intervene. I feel my blood quicken as the vampire lies in wait, ready to leap to the surface. Reason flees to be replaced by cold fury.

  My friends are gone.

  Someone has to pay.

  “Do as he says, Sophie.”

  I barely recognize my own voice. It’s hoarse with the effort of fighting the beast. “Bring us Burke. You are her sister. I know you can do it.”

  Sophie does not struggle against Williams’ grip. “I’m not sure I can.”

  Williams’ shakes her until her teeth rattle. “Do it.”

  I let it go on for a moment, then stop him. I pry his fingers from her arms and step between them. Harder than keeping my anger at bay is keeping the depth of my fury out of my voice. “Sophie. This is not a game. We will hurt you. My friends are dead. Burke is out of control and needs to be stopped. You are our only connection to her. Use your power to summon her. Tell her we’ll kill you if she doesn’t come.”

  Sophie’s eyes are wide, but her voice betrays no fear when she says, “If your friends are dead, the spell has already been broken. I have no way to reach her. She will have a powerful spell in place to protect herself.”

  Williams growls in anger, elbows me aside and slaps her with full force across the face.

  Sophie’s head cracks against the wall of the cave and she slumps to the ground. Her eyes close for a moment, blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. When she looks up at us again, tears of pain and sorrow shine from her eyes.

  “I hold no ill will toward you. I’m sorry my sister has hurt your friends. I will not fight you, but I can’t help.”

  Williams lunges, pulls her to her feet. His teeth are at her neck, all control relinquished to the beast. “You have lived this long only because of Anna’s friends. If you cannot bring us the witch responsible, your life is forfeit. This is for my friend, Ortiz.”

  Stop him, Deveraux screams. You can’t let this happen.

  The panic in his voice is more than concern for Sophie. Once she is dead, he is, too.

  But I won’t stop it. I don’t want to. If anything, I want to take her blood as badly as Williams. I want to tear her head from her body, a sacrifice, a tribute to Frey and Culebra. They didn’t deserve to die, either. It’s not punishment. It’s justice.

  The vampire needs no further coaxing. I grab Williams and pull him away, slamming him back against the wall. She’s mine.

  No.

  He’s on his feet, snarling, lunging back at me. His hands are extended, his mouth twisted. We circle each other, growling, like two dogs spoiling for a fight.

  “Hello?”

  A voice, a familiar voice from the entrance to the cave.

  “Who’s there?”

  And like a dog, I shake myself to allow the blood thoughts of the vampire to recede.

  Who is that?

  Williams and I both turn, wary, eyes flashing yellow to watch as a figure emerges from the darkness.

  Sandra approaches, hands on her hips, head tilted as she takes in the scene.

  “What’s going on here?”

  I swallow hard, pushing the beast down so I can answer as a human. “Frey and Culebra are gone.” I point a shaking finger at Sophie. “She will pay the price.”

  Sandra goes to Sophie, helps her to her feet, glares at Williams and me. “You two are crazy, you know that?” She puts a gentle hand on Sophie’s arm, examines the bleeding wound on her neck from Williams’ bite. “It’s not too bad. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Her eyes spark with anger as she pauses only long enough to throw caustic words back at us. “Culebra and Frey are in the bar. We moved them there to make them more comfortable. Why didn’t you stop there first?”

  Culebra and Frey are still alive. I watch Sandra take Sophie back along the trail.

  Shame sends heat to flood my face.

  We almost killed her.

  How anxious will she be to help us now?

  I probe to see what Williams is feeling. I get only the red tide of residual anger. His animal eyes still glow yellow as he follows the women out of the cave.

  It puts me on alert.

  I know now that whether or not we save Culebra or get Burke, as far as Williams is concerned, Sophie is a dead woman.

  CHAPTER 46

  I WHIP PAST SANDRA AND SOPHIE AND LEAVE WILLIAMS behind to run down the path to the bar. The back door stands open. As soon as I pass through it, I smell it. The acrid stench of illness and impending death.

  It intensifies the fear fluttering my stomach.

  I follow the smell to one of the feeding rooms.

  Frey sits with his back to me, slumped in a chair. Still, unmoving. Only the sound of his labored breathing gives hint of life.

  I tiptoe around to face him. My stomach contracts. I’m glad his eyes are closed. A violent jolt seizes me and if he was watching, the shock that must be stamped on my face could only add to his misery. The smell of decay comes from him.

  Frey’s dark hair is streaked with white. His face is pock marked and gouged with lines from the corner of his eyes to his chin, as if someone had drawn a trowel down the length of it. He looks emaciated, dehydrated . . . and old.

  I squeeze my own eyes shut to stop the tears.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  Frey’s voice, full of humor and, thankfully, life, brings me back. I fling my arms around him and hug until he gently pushes me back.

  “Easy. I’m not in the best shape right now.”

  I release him and step away. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” A tug at my conscience makes me turn around, look toward Culebra. If Frey looks this bad, what must Culebra look like?

  When I approach the cot, I’m amazed to see Culebra looks no different than the last time I saw him. He might be sleeping peacefully in his own bed. His face is unmarked and his body unchanged. The shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest and the intravenous tubes feeding him are the only indications that something is wrong.

  I turn a questioning eye to Frey. “How is this possible?”

  His smile is both sad and ironic. “My counterspell protects Culebra. Unfortunately, it drains me. Remember when I said magic always exacts a price?”

  I turn my eyes away. “I put you in this position. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I knew the risks before I came.” He looks toward the door. “I hope y
ou brought reinforcements.”

  “Sophie. Burke’s sister. She should be able to break the spell.”

  “Burke’s sister?” He frowns. “Can we trust her?”

  “Oh, we can trust her all right.” Williams pushes Sophie ahead of him into the room. “She knows if anything goes wrong, she’s dead.”

  Frey looks around. Whatever he might have imagined a sister of Burke’s to look like, it’s obviously not the dark-haired, shiny-faced young woman Williams shoves toward him. He stares at her, his face betraying his surprise. “She’s a girl. How can she help us?”

  Sophie lays a hand on his shoulder. At her touch, Frey grows still, his muscles relax, his eyes close.

  I’m on her in a heartbeat, slapping her hand away. “What are you doing to him?”

  She turns gray-clouded eyes on me. For an instant, I see the older Sophie, the witch, and it sends a shudder down my back. There’s strength and power and a strong will.

  The next moment, Sophie, the girl, is back. “He is resting. He cannot be a part of the ritual.”

  She turns away and empties the contents of her bag onto the floor.

  She picks through the herbs, separates them into piles. With a piece of chalk, she marks a pentagram on the floor. She picks up a small portion of one of the herbs and places it on a point of the pentagram.

  “Horehound,” she says. “Protection against spells and sorcery.”

  She moves on, scooping up more herbs and laying them on a second point. “Angelica. To ward off evil spirits.”

  On a third point, she places a different herb. “Golden-seal. Healing herb.”

  In the middle of the pentagram she places the fourth herb. “Foxglove. For the heart.”

  She moves away from the pentagram, back to the bag. She picks up a goblet. Its delicate, carved crystal winks in the light and throws off flashes of light like rainbow glitter. She places it in the middle of the pentagram, reverently, as if the thing was a religious relic. Into it she pours half the contents of a small vial. She places the vial on the cot beside Culebra’s body.