Chosen asc-6

by Jeanne C. Stein

  When did Warren turn you?

  She shakes her head, not understanding what’s happening. She doesn’t realize you have to learn to cloak your thoughts. I’m sure it’s something her husband would not have taught her. His need to control would have prevented it.

  So, I take the information I need. The story is there. He turned her after Ortiz’ funeral, while Warren was still weak and in need of human blood. He sent her out to bring back hosts, telling her what to say and what to offer. He used his background as a cop to teach her what to look for—runaways, vagrants—and how to approach them so they wouldn’t be frightened. They were offered money and food (laced with drugs) and after, they’d remember nothing and she’d drive them back to where she found them.

  It was easy. She was never afraid. She was proud of how strong she’d become. Warren was proud of her, too. He promised her a new life. Promised her the world once he and Anna achieved what was meant to be, once Anna finally accepted her destiny.

  A new world. Where he would be king and his wife would be queen.

  I pull myself back from the tangle of thought and emotion emanating from her mind.

  New world? I ask, hoping she had something more.

  She looks at me with that same panic. She doesn’t understand how she can hear me.

  It strikes me that not only did Williams never explain that he could read her thoughts, he never explained that she could project hers as well. Another way to keep her under his control. He could cloak his thoughts so she had no idea he was reading hers.

  Clever. Manipulative.

  Predictable.

  I get up and move away.

  What do I do now? What do I do with her?

  She’s watching me. Knowing how she feels about me, it must have been desperation that brought her here. She’s a vampire with no idea what it means or how to take care of herself. Williams turned her months ago but left her ignorant of basic survival skills. I’m sure he thought he’d be around. Sure he planned to provide her with hosts and to instruct her in vampire ways.

  His own ways, of course.

  What to do now?

  This time when I sit down, I take a seat in a chair across the room. Put some space between us. Her head is bowed, her hands knotted in her lap. I realize she’s crying when I see tears splash onto her hands. She doesn’t move, doesn’t make any attempt to wipe them away.

  “Mrs. Williams?”

  After a long moment, she looks up.

  “Why did you come to me?”

  Her expression shifts, from sadness to despair. She wipes at the tears with the back of a hand.

  “Where else could I go? Ortiz is dead. You are the only other vampire Warren ever talked about. Warren was supposed to take care of me. He said he’d take care of me. Now he’s gone, and I’m alone. I’m frightened.”

  She clutches at her stomach. “There’s an ache—here—that’s growing stronger. I’m so hungry. I was going to go back to those places I went for Warren but I didn’t want to go alone. He never told me what drugs he used on them. I thought you’d know. You need to feed, too, right? You can come with me. Show me what I need to do on my own.”

  Her desperation is growing stronger. It’s in her voice, shadowing her face. When she speaks again, anger is there, too. The lines around her jaw tighten, her eyes become hard.

  “And you owe me, Anna. You owe Warren, too. He’s gone because of you. Oh, don’t try to deny it. Everything that’s happened in the last year is because of you. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I only know it’s true.”

  There’s no sense in mouthing any kind of denial. She wouldn’t hear it. Right now she’s overcome with grief and more important, the hunger. I remember those first weeks. Avery kept me fed. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was feeding me David’s blood. The memory still triggers a shiver of revulsion—toward him, toward myself for being such a gullible fool.

  I see the same susceptibility in the woman sitting across the room. It may be even worse for her because Williams was her husband long before he turned her. She loved and trusted him. Enough to let him make her vampire to save his life. A selfless act on her part, pure selfishness on his.

  When I stand up, she does, too. I wave her back down. “I’m going to make a telephone call. Stay here.”

  She doesn’t argue, lowers herself back onto the couch. For the first time, a glimmer of hope shimmers in her eyes.

  I cross to the kitchen, close the door behind me. I dial a number so well known to me I should have it on speed dial.

  As luck would have it, Frey picks up. Not Layla. I swipe an imaginary hand across my forehead, a cartoon gesture of relief. “It’s Anna.”

  He doesn’t say anything right away. I imagine he’s having the opposite reaction at hearing my voice. Then he says, “I heard about Williams.”

  That catches me off guard. “How?”

  “He was the police chief. It’s everywhere. The newspaper, the TV. Even made national news. That is why you’re calling, right?” The timbre of his voice changes. “Nothing’s wrong is it?”

  I wish it were that simple. I tell him about Harris’ visit. About Mrs. Williams sitting, as we speak, in my living room. Leave the best part for last. “He turned her.”

  I hear Frey take a breath. “God. Did she attack you?”

  “No. She is inexperienced as a vampire. Williams put her on a short leash. She doesn’t know her strength, her powers. She didn’t even realize vampires have a psychic connection. It gets worse. She doesn’t know how to feed on her own. She’s hungry. She’s going to need blood soon or instinct will take over. She’ll attack innocents. She’ll have no choice.”

  I pause, wishing I didn’t have to ask another favor of him so soon. I have no choice. “Will you take her to Beso de la Muerte? To Culebra?”

  Frey is quiet. In my mind’s eye, I see him weighing options. He would have every right to say no. He’s already missed two days of summer school because of me. And there’s the driving thing. I didn’t even think of that when I called him. How would he get her there? It was a stupid idea.

  I open my mouth to tell him to forget it when he breaks in.

  “I can be there in thirty minutes. I’ll have Layla drive us. She’s always said she wants to meet Culebra. Here’s her chance.”

  “Layla?” Her other form is lion. “She doesn’t have trouble driving?”

  “She just had these glasses made—with a filtering lens she designed. Moderates the blue spectrum so we can distinguish colors. Seems to work.”

  For the first time, I’m glad that Layla is a supernatural and, though it pains me to admit it, a clever one at that. “Thank you. Again. And thank Layla.” Those are words I thought I’d never utter. I swallow the bitter taste, continue. “I’ll call Culebra. Make sure he knows what’s going on and to have a host ready.”

  We ring off. I call Culebra. Explain the situation. He hadn’t heard about Williams. His shock turns to bitterness when I explain about his wife and her predicament. He never liked or trusted Williams, feelings now justified in his mind. Still, he says he’ll be ready for Mrs. Williams when she gets there.

  When I rejoin Mrs. Williams in the living room, the tears are gone, she’s sitting up straighter on the couch. She’s regained some of the poise I remember from my first glimpse of her almost a year ago. It was at a party in Avery’s home, a mix of vampires and their mortal spouses. He was chief of police, she the wife of a man with power in both human and supernatural communities. She was aware of and comfortable with her position as his consort. She wore the crown well.

  She’s remembering that now. It’s there in her thoughts. She’s berating herself for showing weakness in front of me. In front of her husband’s nemesis. She’s gathering courage from a misconception that we are equals. She’s unsheathing vampire claws.

  If I weren’t feeling sympathetic toward her, I’d show her how unequal we are.

  She has a lot to learn.

  But not from me. I h
ave neither the time nor temperament to tutor her in vampire ways.

  When she sees me at the doorway, she stands. “Can we go now?”

  I shake my head. “No. I can’t help you today.”

  Her mouth hardens in a tight-lipped sneer. “What do you mean? I need you to show me what to do. I’ve never fed on my own. You have to do this.”

  She’s ramping up for a full-blown tirade, I feel it. Before she starts haranguing me, I hold up a hand. “I have someone coming who will help you.”

  Her face brightens. “A host?”

  “No. A shape-shifter who will take you to a place where you can safely feed.”

  The frown is back again. “You won’t come with me?”

  “I can’t. I have things to attend to.” Things your husband is responsible for, I’m tempted to add.

  She’s not happy with the response. Her body is rigid with protest. I don’t care. We stare at each other a few seconds before she looks away. Her need for blood is stronger than her need to argue. She’s afraid if she pushes me, I’ll throw her out to manage on her own. She’s not ready to attempt it.

  She looks back at me.

  She’s convinced she soon will be.

  The urge to smile at her is strong. She doesn’t realize I’m reading her like a first-grade primer. I understand now why a man like Williams would hide his ability to impose himself into his wife’s head. What better way to exert authority than to know what she is thinking and feeling? And to weigh it against what she might tell him she’s thinking and feeling.

  It’s a powerful tool for control.

  And Williams was all about control.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mrs. Williams and I wait in silence for Frey to arrive. I keep my thoughts hidden, just in case she’s figured out that she heard me in her head. She’s not a stupid woman. Her husband kept her in the dark about the telepathic connection between vampires and other supernaturals. Once she spends time with Frey and Culebra, though, I have no doubt she’ll pick up the trick quickly.

  I wonder how she’ll react to the realization that Williams was reading her every thought? I know how I’d react.

  It’s the equivalent of mental rape. No matter how much I loved the guy, it would alter the grieving process considerably.

  When Frey and Layla arrive, I’m subjected to the same hypercritical appraisal of my home by Layla as I was by Mrs. Williams. It’s even more intense with Layla, since she happens to be an interior designer. Before she even says hello, or acknowledges Mrs. Williams, she says, “Not bad, Anna. Could use a professional’s touch—your furniture is a little dykish. And you could use some artwork on the walls.” She turns my way with a condescending smile. “I’d be happy to help.”

  Ire rises along with the hair on the back of my neck. Frey intervenes. I don’t know what he says to her, but she turns green cat eyes on him wide with innocence. I am being nice. I offered my services.

  He closes his eyes a moment in what looks like an attempt to control his exasperation and pushes past her. He extends a hand to Mrs. Williams. “I’m Daniel Frey. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She takes his hand, her expression once again riddled with confusion. She must have heard the exchange between Frey and Layla and still can’t comprehend why. “You are vampire?”

  “No.” Frey’s voice is soft with understanding and compassion, the same voice he’d use with a troubled student. “I am a shape-shifter. So is Layla. We can communicate with you telepathically. Vampires and shape-shifters have that ability. You’ll get used to it soon, I promise.”

  An appreciation of why she wasn’t aware of her telepathic powers is blossoming in Mrs. Williams mind. We all feel it. The beginning of doubt as to her husband’s motives. Curiosity about what other powers she might have that he neglected to tell her about. A spark of anger.

  Still, she summons the strength to temper those thoughts. She hasn’t learned to cloak them. Yet. But she is wise enough to know the three beings in the room with her are privy to what’s going on in her head. Instead, she concentrates on where Frey and his Barbie doll girlfriend are about to take her.

  Layla’s mouth turns down in consternation at being classified a “Barbie” doll. She doesn’t have an exaggerated hourglass figure; she’s thin as a reed. But she does have pouty good looks, and with that long hair cascading down her back, it’s easy to make the comparison.

  Layla sees the smile that quirks the corner of my mouth.

  She shoots me a venomous look. Watch it. We’re here to do you a favor.

  Mrs. Williams looks flustered when she catches Layla’s remark to me. She clears her throat in a nervous attempt to draw attention away from her gaffe. “Where are we going? Anna never told me.”

  Frey, too, is suddenly anxious to put distance between Layla and me. “We’re taking you to a place where you can safely feed.” He ushers her toward the door with a hand at her elbow, crooking a finger at Layla. Layla follows with another black look in my direction. Once he has them both started for the car, Frey turns back to me.

  “Are you going to be all right by yourself?”

  “Yes.” After this morning, by myself is a welcome relief. “Lance will be home by noon.”

  Frey doesn’t question or argue. The basis of his concern is that Williams was a threat as long as I refused to cooperate with him. It follows then that with Williams gone, the threat should be, too. Frey has no way of knowing my suspicions about the part Underwood played in William’s death. With Mrs. Williams here, there was never an opportunity to discuss it and now, what purpose would it serve except to add yet another reason for him to worry about me? I wave him off and watch until the car pulls from the curb. Mrs. Williams’ determined face stares out at me from the backseat.

  Once they are gone, my thoughts turn to what I should do next. I know of only one way to contact Underwood—at his place in La Quinta. It takes me a moment to get the number and another moment to be connected.

  I should have known it would not be this easy. The receptionist tells me Underwood checked out yesterday afternoon.

  Of course he did.

  Not getting his cell number was a stupid and negligent oversight on my part. I depended on Williams to be my contact. Now, I can only wait for Underwood to contact me.

  Which is problematic. It will be hard to explain skipping out alone with Lance playing guard dog. I had hoped to meet with Williams yesterday or this morning before Lance got back to town.

  Fuck. Nothing is ever easy.

  With two hours to kill before noon, restlessness once again comes to roost on my shoulders like a leaden yoke. If I go to the office, I might at least have the distraction of a telephone call from a potential client. It doesn’t take me long to decide anything—even work—is better than sitting around.

  The office is closer to the airport, too, so more convenient when Lance calls that he’s arrived. I leave a voice message on his cell letting him know where I’ll be.

  Mind made up, I’m on the road in five minutes.

  * * *

  It’s another postcard-perfect day in sunny San Diego. The water sparkles, the blue sky shimmers cloudless and bright, the harbor is so full of boats it looks like a floating traffic jam.

  A day like this, it’s a joy just to be near the water. I feel it even here on the deck outside our office.

  Maybe I should buy a boat. No one can sneak up on you on a boat. Lance and I could anchor in the bay, stranding Underwood and his fortune-telling on shore. Maybe if I let the anniversary of my becoming vampire pass unnoticed, so would the prophecies. Let some other poor soul take on the mantle of the Chosen One.

  Williams may be dead, but his goddamned legacy is as burdensome as Avery’s. When I should be mournful that a two-hundred-year-old vampire just flamed out of existence, instead I can’t let go of the animosity. If he’d been honest with me in the beginning, he wouldn’t be dead.

  “Williams, you fucker. It’s all your fault.”

  “Talking t
o yourself now?”

  The voice at my elbow startles me so much, the vampire reacts before the human. Teeth bare, a snarl erupts, and I have a neck in my hands in the time it takes my eyes to register to whom the voice belongs.

  Lance. Here. Safe. My hands drop from the neck to the small of his back so I can pull him even closer.

  “Damn, Lance, you scared me. I thought you were going to call when you got in.”

  He presses his body against mine. “It’s only a ten-minute jog from the airport. It’d take you longer to get there by car.”

  His lips are so close, his body heat rising so quickly, it takes all my willpower not to pull his clothes off and fuck him senseless right here on the deck. Instead, exercising great restraint, I pull him into the office, sweep everything on David’s side of the desk to the floor, and we fuck each other senseless inside.

  * * *

  The sound of approaching footsteps from outside clears our heads and startles us upright quicker than a splash of ice water on a sunburned back. Lance and I look at each other, then toward the door.

  The door we hadn’t bothered to lock.

  This is a place of business.

  Good thing we can move fast.

  Giggling like school kids, we scramble into our clothes, put the desk back in order and stand looking innocently and expectantly toward the door.

  The footsteps stop. There’s a moment of silence.

  Then an envelope drops through the mail slot.

  Lance releases a breath. “Mailman.”

  He walks over and picks up the envelope and hands it to me.

  I slip it on the blotter, drop into the chair on David’s side of our partner’s desk, motion Lance into my chair. We grin at each other, enjoying the afterglow of sex and adrenaline.

  I ask, “How’d the shoot go?”

  Lance waves the question aside with a flip of a hand. “Fine.” He leans toward me, remembering what he’d intended to ask before desire trumped rational thought. “I want to know what the hell is going on here. I didn’t see the headline about Williams until I landed.”