“Adelita obviously adores her. What if she changes her mind?” I ask quietly. “What would it do to Adelita if she were to leave?”
“I won’t.”
Janet crosses into the room. She looks up at Culebra. “Could I speak to Anna a minute?”
He glances my way and I nod. It’s a good idea.
Janet waits until he’s gone and closes the door. “You have no reason to believe what I’m about to say, but I hope you’ll hear me out.” She turns and squares herself up to me. “I was a train wreck when I arrived. I believed immortality was the only thing left in this world to satisfy me. I have more money than I need, no responsibilities, no dependents. I was lonely and bored. When I learned about the existence of vampires, it seemed I could finally be a part of something bigger than myself. It was a club, a family, I could join.”
She sits across from me. “Here, I realize there is no vampire club. No vampire family. Every vamp that walks into that door walks in alone. You are the exception. It’s because you don’t let your human side wither. You cling to it.
“Here with Culebra and Adelita, I found something, too. I found a darling girl who never had a real mother, who speaks of you as the one who saved her, fought for her, when her own mother didn’t. She sees Culebra as the angel who saved her from poverty and gave her the opportunity to go to school, to become something. I want to be a part of that. I have something to offer her, and Culebra.” She laughs. “He’s a character, you know? He acts gruff and scary, but he melts around Adelita. I’m not sure what he is. I know he’s not completely human, nor is he vampire. He doesn’t feed. He hasn’t shared that part of himself with me yet, but when he trusts me, he will. I can wait.”
She stops, and we sit quietly for a moment.
Conflicting emotions swirl around inside me. I can’t sort them fast enough to reply. I want to believe her. Adelita needs a female role model she can relate to. If Janet is sincere…
“What happens if you get bored?” I ask. “If you decide you miss that big mansion in LA? Four days ago you yelled at me because you slept in a cave.”
She grins. “We figured that out. Culebra is letting me build a cabin out back. Nothing fancy—a couple of bedrooms. One is for Adelita when she returns home from boarding school on the weekends and one is for us.”
“Us?” The word squeaks out.
Her face reddens. “Well, we came to an understanding. I can’t say we’re in love, but I think that will come. He’s not had anyone in his life for a long time. We’re taking it slow—” The blush deepens. “Honestly, Anna, sex with him is—”
I hold up a hand. I don’t need to hear anymore.
I stand up, look at her, and resort to the only way I know how to impress her with the sincerity of my words.
“If you hurt either of them,” I snarl, fingers curling into a fist, vampire coming to the surface, “I will kill you.”
With a ghostly smile at the corner of her lips, she stands, too. “I believe you,” she says.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chael waits for me while I say goodbye to Culebra and Adelita. He follows me outside, and I feel his irritation like walking on burning hot asphalt with bare feet, impossible to ignore. He’s waiting for my comment on the situation’s idiocy, but honestly, I can’t. In a crazy way, Janet may be the best for Culebra and Adelita.
“Well,” he says, “what are you going to do about that?” He jerks a thumb back toward the bar.
I turn toward him and sigh. “What can I do?”
He stares. “What do you think? Yank her out. Send her packing back to LA. Tell Culebra to return things to the way they were.”
“Why? Give me one good reason why?”
Chael does something I would never expect. His face gets purple, his arms windmill around, and he yells at me. “This is unseemly! We are vampire, the highest form of human life, and to act with such indiscretion around humans is unthinkable! If you don’t stop it, I will.”
Yelling at me is always a bad idea. I don’t often pull the “chosen one” card, but his temper tantrum snaps me like a rubber band. Vampire rises to the surface and in one moment, I have him against my car, my hand around his neck. “You forget who you’re talking to.” My voice trembles with fury. “You will do nothing. You will get in your car and drive away from this place. These are my friends, my people, and if you come back here again, you forfeit your life.”
Chael doesn’t fight me. He grows still. He yields to the steel of my grip, but he doesn’t avert his eyes either. While he’s hiding his thoughts, I feel them thrusting dagger-like into my subconscious.
I subdue him, but I fear this fight is not over.
I release him and he backs away. His eyes blaze defiantly but he’s not brave enough to argue, or he’s not ready to.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Chael,” I say. “This is not a threat. What happens in Beso de la Muerte does not affect the vampire world at large. It is a microcosm not characteristic of anywhere else. Please don’t challenge me on this. You will lose.”
Chael straightens his shoulders, bows stiffly from the waist. “As you wish.”
He turns and walks, heading to a car on the opposite side of the street. When he reaches it, a driver steps out to open the rear passenger door. The driver watches me as Chael climbs inside. He is vampire, too, and saw what happened. Chael is not happy. He likes to think of himself in charge—always.
If I’m lucky, he’ll lick his wounded ego and go back to the Middle East where he is, literally, king of his own realm.
I only hope.
It’s midnight when I get back to the office. I don’t know if Frey and David will still be here, or if they’ve returned to David’s condo. I spy David’s car in the parking lot, and lights on in the office.
Frey rises first when I step inside. He raises an eyebrow at me. I shake my head. “Nothing new.”
David comes around from behind the desk, paper in hand. “I think we have something.”
I join them and David hands me the paper. “The car is registered to a Lorraine Simpson. Her driver license photo is on the back.”
I turn the paper over and do a double take. Angular face, blue eyes, straight nose, and pointed chin.
“Duster man is a woman?”
“Unless she has a twin.”
I look more closely. According to her license, she has dark hair, is 5’10”, and weighs one hundred sixty pounds. The address listed is in El Cajon. I point to it. “You guys check it out?”
“Unfortunately, the license bureau didn’t. It’s a landfill.”
Shit. “At least we have a name.” I sink into a chair. “Are you running it?”
“As we speak.” David returns to his place behind the desk and Frey perches on the edge, facing me.
“I checked in with John-John,” he says. “He sends his love. His grandmother is recovering finally, but slowly.”
I reach out and touch his knee. “Maybe that’s a good thing. If he came home now, we’d not be spending much time with him,” I blow out an exasperated breath. “Or have a home for him to come back to.”
The computer beeps and David focuses on the screen. “We finally have something. This is from a police source. There was a Lorraine Simpson booked for involvement in a Ponzi scheme in Reno two years ago. She made a deal to give up her bosses in return for probation. Her last known address is a half-way house in LA. It’s run by private contractors. We can find out where she is from someone there.” He looks up at me. “We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
Frey nods. “While you do that, I’ll stay here and see how I can put the house back in order. I can salvage most of our clothes and even put John-John’s bed back together.”
Plans made, fatigue settles on my shoulders like a heavy coat. I may be vampire, but I need sleep like anyone else. I yawn and stretch.
David grabs his keys from the desk top. “Let’s call it a night.”
“The money?”
Da
vid glances toward the filing cabinet. Our office safe is hidden behind it. “Safe and sound.”
At some point, we will have to go back to the PO and pick up the rest of it. Tonight there isn’t anything else we can do. As we trudge toward the parking lot, I think of Duke. I hope, wherever he is, he can hold on a little longer.
We’re back at David’s, in bed. Frey leans toward me, his lips warm against my neck, offering himself.
I snuggle closer.
Maybe it’s the drama of the last few days: Duke missing, our house trashed, Culebra and Janet becoming a thing, Chael challenging me so openly in Beso de la Muerte. Whatever the reason, suddenly, vampire awakens and a primal lust overtakes me.
Frey feels it, too, the way my skin burns. His fingers trace a slow path down my body, settle between my legs. He presses gently at first, then more urgently until I rise to meet his touch. I’m reaching for him, ready, more than ready, for him to enter me.
He’s over me, guiding himself in, thrusting. He lowers his head until he feels my lips at his neck. A shudder ripples his body when I break the skin. The rhythm is never interrupted, vampire and man, until we climax together, one in body and soul.
When the heat has dissipated, and the frenzy abated, Frey lays beside me, still holding me. He breathes, “I love you, Anna.”
I never felt it more.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day Ten
Frey, bless him, had David stop by the house last night so I have a change of clothes. I shower and come out of the bedroom feeling more refreshed than I have in days, when I’m met with somber expressions.
My step falters. “Uh-oh. What’s up?”
David points to a seat at the breakfast bar and pours me a cup of coffee. “Checked office messages this morning. DNA results are in from the blood found in the house. It’s Duke’s.”
I thought I prepared myself for that possibility, but it hits me hard. “Anyone else’s?” I ask, hoping Duke fought back against his attacker.
David shakes his head.
“A woman gets the drop on Duke and kills him?” Sexist as it sounds, I have trouble wrapping my head around the idea. Duke wasn’t big, but he kept himself in good shape. In his line of business, he had to. Clients who put their houses up as collateral for jailed relatives, who then pay them back by fleeing the jurisdiction, are often unhappy. They take it out on the bail bondsman who they begged to save their bacon weeks before.
Frey shrugs. “She may have had help.”
“Don’t forget,” David says. “Duke knew this woman. She could get close to him because he was expecting her.”
I remember Donald describing who came to Sullivan’s office with Howard. He didn’t realize she was a woman. If Howard and the bookie knew she was a part of the Ponzi scheme, maybe Duke did know her. Not as a mastermind, but maybe as a fellow investor.
“Let’s hit the road.” I toss Frey my car keys. “We’ll call you with what we find at the half-way house.”
He leans down and kisses my cheek. “See you when you get back.”
We leave the condo together, and David and I part company with Frey in the parking lot. I’m not looking forward to another trek to LA, but we have a definite goal.
Half-way houses are seldom located in “good” neighborhoods—where the NIMBY syndrome is alive and well. This one proves to be the exception. David and I exchange surprised glances when the address we are directed to turns out to be in a nice, middle-class neighborhood of stucco ranch houses with neatly trim yards and lots of trees. There are families strolling the sidewalks, children playing in front yards, and joggers out for morning runs.
Not what we expected.
We approach the front door and ring.
A small grated window set in the door swings open and a face peers out at us.
“No solicitors,” a voice says. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.”
David pulls a small leather case from his pocket and flips it open. He holds it up. “Not soliciting. Looking for someone who lived here. We’re insurance investigators.”
The pair of eyes examines the card. “Who are you looking for?”
David unfolds the driver’s license photo and holds it up. “Lorraine Simpson.”
There’s a scoffing sound. “You wasted a trip. Lorraine hasn’t been here in a year.”
David nods. “We understand that, but it is important that we find her. Could we come in and talk to whoever’s in charge?”
The window closes, and David and I are left standing on the porch. Long seconds tick by. Finally we hear the lock turn, and the door swings open.
I don’t know what surprises me more—that it’s a young woman in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, or that she’s wearing the headpiece and veil of a Catholic nun. Maybe that’s the reason they live here. We passed a Catholic church a block away. A church affiliation may have smoothed the way.
She motions us to come in.
David looks as surprised as I do, but we pull ourselves together enough to follow her inside.
She closes the door behind us and holds out a hand. “Sister Mary Claire,” she says. “How may I help you?”
David accepts her hand first. “We’re hoping you can help us find Lorraine Simpson,” he says.
Sister Mary Claire leads us into a sitting room where another young girl is busy vacuuming. “Rosie, you can finish up later.” She waits until the girl has left and closes the door behind her. “Why are you looking for her?”
“She’s in trouble, but you might already know that.”
The young nun frowns, but doesn’t ask for details. She has a pretty, no-nonsense face that, I imagine, has no problem making sure rules are followed in her house. She gestures to the couch and, once David and I are settled, sinks into a chair across from us.
“She isn’t one of our success stories,” she says. “She was sent here as a condition of her probation but stayed only long enough to cause trouble for everyone. I was about to notify her parole officer when she disappeared. She never gave us a chance.”
“Do you have any idea where she went?” I ask.
When Sister Mary Claire turns toward me, I see a flash of—something—in her eyes. As if she recognizes what I am.
She recovers quickly.
“I have the address of an elderly aunt who lives in San Diego,” she continues, the presentiment of awareness gone from her eyes. “I’ll get it for you. Though when I called looking for her, I was told Lorraine hadn’t been in touch for months. When I told her Lorraine was missing, she was genuinely concerned. She said her biggest regret was that she didn’t do more to help her niece after Lorraine’s parents passed.”
She leaves her chair to cross to a big roll-top desk set against the far wall. She rummages in a drawer and pulls out a Rolodex. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one; most people use computers to keep files now. She walks her fingers along the dividers until she finds the letter she’s looking for, sorts the cards, and pulls one out. Jotting the information on a slip of paper, she hands it to me.
“Here,” she says, glancing at the card. “Genny Davis is the only contact I have.” She sighs. “Lorraine isn’t a bad person. She lacks discipline, and someone to believe in her,” she adds with a hint of disappointment, “I had hoped it would be us.”
David and I stand up, and Sister Marie Claire leads us back into the hallway. She opens the door but touches my arm. I let David go out ahead of me to turn back.
“I’ve known your kind before,” she says, kindly. “If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open. The church is far more tolerant than you might imagine.”
I don’t know what to say. As a rule, humans don’t recognize me as vampire. If they do, I expect fear or disgust to be the reaction. This catches me completely off guard and confirms that I hadn’t imagined what I’d felt before.
I want to ask what gave me away, but David is waiting outside the door, so I simply nod and join him.
“Wh
at did she say to you?” David asks as we head for the car.
“Nothing,” I reply. “She wishes us luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I mull over Sister Mary Claire’s words as we drive back to San Diego. It’s the first time a human has made a remark like that to me. We vampires have tried very hard to keep our existence secret, except for those who volunteer to be hosts. Frankly, I never asked one how they came to know about us.
Then Janet found out.
Maybe we aren’t such a secret.
I check in with Frey. He’s making head-way in the house and reports there isn’t as much damage as we first thought. After righting upended furniture, replacing mattresses, and repairing John-John’s bed, the only things he had to trash were ripped cushions, remarking that was probably done more for effect than anything else. Luckily (or maybe not so luckily), he had some experience with removing blood stains. Except for a couple of small accent rugs in the living room that he also threw out, he’s managed to scrub away most of Duke’s blood.
Duke’s blood.
GPS directs us to the address Sister Mary Claire gave us. It’s an area known as Encanto, a mixed neighborhood primed for urbanization, although it hasn’t yet reached 312 Thrush Street, a tiny, box-like house on a swath of grass. The yard is well-cared for, and an American flag flies on a pole from the front porch. A mailbox with “Davis” stenciled on the side and “312” sits at the edge of the sidewalk. There’s no garage and no cars parked on the street, either. We park across the street.
Before David and I can discuss this interview, the front door opens. An elderly lady walks out, down the stairs and up the sidewalk. She looks in her eighties, tiny, 4’5” tall, wearing a long, dark coat with embroidered flowers on the lapel. A cloth hat set at a jaunty angle on a tangle of bright red curls. Her oversize glasses perch on a snub nose under which lips accented by bright red lipstick are pursed in a determined frown. She clutches a shiny black patent leather handbag to her chest with one hand, pulls a rolling grocery cart filled with plastic trash bags behind her with the other.
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