No. No sadness. Only bitterness. Only the desire for revenge.
His blood will do nicely.
When we come to the mouth of the cave, the man who has led us stops. Turns to me. He bows his head.
“I am Zuria, high priest in your service. Descendant of Maju. He has been the guide for five hundred years. With him gone, you must give us instructions. What do you want us to do, Goddess? We are powerless without direction.”
I look around at the men and women gathered around me, their faces wreathed in shock and sadness. Wretched. Dismal creatures with sagging flesh and stooped shoulders.
I try to dredge up some feelings of compassion. Nothing stirs within me but contempt. They were willing to watch, hell, they were participating, in Underwood’s assault.
I ignore the question. From our vantage point, I still cannot see anything outside the cave but darkness. I can hear something, though, the ocean. “Where are we?” I ask.
He points toward the cave entrance. “We are near the city of Biarritz. In the cliffs above the shoreline.”
“Biarritz? In France?”
He nods. “Basque country. Home of the Sorginak.”
Since my parents moved to France, I’ve spent more than a little time on the web teaching myself about a country that has become their home. I know the Basque region spans the border of Spain and France on the Atlantic coast. Something else floats to the surface of my mind, too.
Lance. Telling me that Underwood was born in Basque country. That he called Underwood’s father a Sorginak witch.
How did they get me here? How long have I been out?
The little circle of humans has not moved. They stare at me with big eyes. Waiting.
I look away. Spy piles of clothes scattered amid the rocks. My jeans, T-shirt and tennis shoes among them. Without a word, I scoop them up, move behind a rock to get dressed. Awareness that hands belonging to the creatures outside no doubt stripped me of my clothes sparks another flare of anger. If I don’t get away from them soon, I may not be able to wait to purge Underwood’s blood. Even from behind the rock, the vampire inside senses the clean blood pounding through the veins of those standing a few feet away. She asks why we hesitate, and I don’t have a good answer. The fact that they are human is not enough. They were one with Underwood.
When I step from behind the rock, the others are still there, too, but like me, have dressed. The women wear baggy, shapeless dresses of cotton, the men trousers and loose-fitting shirts.
Time to get some answers. I address the one who called himself Zuria.
“What do you call yourselves?”
“We are Sorginak.”
“Are there many of you?”
He waves a hand. “This is the circle. The protectorate. There are not many who follow the old ways anymore. Even our children have no interest. Your coming was to be the spark.”
“The spark?”
“The resurgence of traditional Basque ways.”
I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to know what that means. I only want to go after Lance. Which calls up another question.
“How did I get here?”
He frowns as if I should know. “Maju. Brought you here across the sky on his chariot of fire. You and the younger man.”
Chariot of fire? That this man really believes this shit in the twenty-first century trips another spasm of barely containable anger. The vampire within me writhes to be set free, to exact revenge. I have to close my eyes a moment to plea with vampire to be patient, to assure her that she will have an opportunity to vent her wrath soon.
When she is quieted, I face Zuria again. Even with the effort to suppress it, my voice shakes with frustration. “You didn’t find it strange that I, your so-called goddess, came to you drugged? And that the man who called himself my husband had me bound to that altar and was about to rape me?”
He shows me the same blank expression as when I asked how I got here. “It is not up to us to question the ways of the gods. Maju told us what to do—how to prepare for the ceremony. We did as he asked.”
There is no outrage. Not even a spark of confusion or doubt. This man believes he did nothing wrong.
Now what?
“How far are we from an airport?”
That question, at least, allows Zuria to respond like a rational human being. “Not far. There is an airport in Biarritz.”
The impression lasts barely as long as it takes him to answer. A shadow darkens his face. “You are leaving? What are we to do?”
There are so many ways I want to answer that question—most involving various body parts. Instead, I take a moment to choose my words carefully.
“First, you are to take me to the airport. Then you will return to your homes and forget what happened here. The one you called Maju was a false prophet. Keep vigilant. When the time is right, I will be back with my true consort. Do you understand?”
Hope shines from Zuria’s eyes. “You will not punish us for Maju?”
Hopefully the law will do that when they discover the body inside the cave. As for Underwood? Trying to explain his desiccated corpse will merely change the nature of the plea from murder to insanity.
I shake my head. “No. This man who pretended to be Maju was a powerful sorcerer. But you must heed my words. No more ceremonies. Live your lives quietly and in peace with the world. Wait. For my return.”
The words are so much garbage. I expect someone in the group to challenge what I’ve said. Instead, the reaction is one of relief. They gather their personal belongings from the floor of the cave and prepare to go. They are chatting amongst themselves as if coming from a church social instead of having just participated in an ancient ritual that left their deity, Maju, not to mention one of their own, dead at the hands of a vampire.
I look around in bewilderment.
Unbelievable.
Unfuckingbelievable.
* * *
I’ve never been to Biarritz.
When we exit the cave, we are looking down on a beach. Five-foot waves kiss a pearlescent shoreline. It is a clear, moonless night and a half dozen surfers take advantage of the well-formed breakers. The sight provokes a spasm of longing for home—for my cottage. A broad boardwalk is lined with people watching the surfers perform, and I remember another bit of web-generated trivia: Biarritz is an ocean town bordering the Atlantic, a well-known surfing beach.
Cafés and bistros sparkle under strings of twinkling lights. Music floats upward. I see all this from a vantage point that has us facing a lighthouse with a statue perched on a nearby rocky promontory.
Zuria follows my gaze. “That is you, Mari,” he breathes with quiet reverence.
Somehow, I believe it is Mari only in his deluded mind. More likely a statue of a better-known protectorate. My defunct Catholic training stirs in my memory. The Virgin Mary.
The group scatters once we are out of the cave. Each one passes me with a bowed head and some kind of prayerful entreaty. Some try to take my hand. I step back out of reach.
Once just Zuria and I remain, I look around. We appear to be on a walking path whose direction takes us away from the shoreline. It must be close to the trailhead because I already hear car engines starting up.
“How far to the airport?”
Zuria motions me to follow him. I step in line with him and ask again. “How far to the airport?”
He seems reluctant to answer the question. “It would be a bad idea for you to play with me, Zuria. I want to go home. I’ll only ask you nicely once more. How far are we from the airport?”
He wipes a hand across his mouth. “Not far, Goddess. But that is not the problem.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What is the problem?”
He glances at his watch. “It is almost two in the morning. The airport doesn’t open on Saturday until five thirty. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t offer you the hospitality of my home until you could be accommodated.”
I almost laugh at the s
uggestion. Spend time in this crazy bastard’s home? I’d sooner sleep—
Then the implication of what he said hits me.
I glance at my wrist. Where my watch should be. The Rolex my family gave me last Christmas.
Another spasm of frustration and anger flares through me. My watch is gone.
Bad enough. But that’s not what’s triggering the reaction. Shock. Confusion.
If it’s Saturday, the anniversary of my becoming is past.
I take mental inventory. I feel the same.
Flex muscles. Nothing.
Glance down. No wings have sprouted. I’m not glowing or shimmering. My body appears normal.
For a moment, I’m so relieved I almost forget where I am and how I got here. I throw back my head and laugh.
Zuria watches with a puzzled frown. “Goddess? Are you all right?”
Better than all right.
It’s over.
Williams. Julian Underwood. Their crazy notion of a destiny.
The euphoric feeling that I am free lasts only as long as it takes vampire to push herself into my thoughts.
Not over.
Not yet.
Don’t forget Lance.
CHAPTER 31
Despite Zuria’s objections, I convince him to drop me off at the airport. It is not lost on me that I have no money, no passport, not even a change of clothes. I need the time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
As I get out of his battered Citroën, Zuria reaches into the backseat and hands me a jacket.
My leather jacket.
“The young one left this for you,” he says.
I take it. Wonder when Lance had time to think of a jacket? Was it before he drugged me or when he was stripping me naked for Underwood and his band of loonies?
Zuria’s reluctance to go manifests itself in a drumming of fingertips on the steering wheel and an expression of sadness that borders on tearful. I finally have to turn away before he puts the car in gear.
“Come back to us soon, Goddess,” he says.
Yeah. Don’t hold your breath. I walk toward the terminal and, finally, hear the clutch engage as the car roars off. The trailing noxious plume of burning motor oil tickles my nose and burns my eyes.
I shrug into the jacket, almost regretting it as soon as it settles over my shoulders. Lance’s smell wafts up. He must have worn it. The urge to take it off and throw it away is powerful, but damn it, I like this jacket. I’ll have it fumigated as soon as I get back home.
The building I’m facing is low-slung and utilitarian. Quiet. I can’t see anyone moving around inside. It’s not big as far as international airports go. There is a small grassy park in front of the terminal and I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the grass while I review my options.
The obvious first option would be to call my folks.
The drawbacks to that are just as obvious. How do I explain being in France with no money, no passport and no notice?
Shit.
If there’s an American consulate somewhere in the vicinity, they may be able to help with money and an emergency visa so I can get out of here.
But I’ll need a story. What story can I use? That I was mugged?
That could explain no wallet and no passport. But what about when they ask me where I’ve been staying? And if I notified the police?
Lance. This is all your fault.
What the hell were you thinking?
How did you get away? If the airport was closed, did you have a car stashed nearby?
For a moment, I’m awash in depression. Drowning in a pool of sorrow, a sense of loss.
The moment passes quickly. Anger swallows it up.
No time for angst.
In frustration, I shove my hands in the pockets of the jacket.
Freeze as my fingers close around—
From the right pocket, I pull my watch.
From the left, an envelope.
I slip the Rolex on my wrist, fasten it before looking at the envelope.
Lance’s handwriting.
To Anna.
I don’t want to feel what washes over me. Regret. Sadness. I want to feel only anger. The man who claimed he loved me delivered me to Underwood, then watched while he violated me. What excuse could he offer that would allow me to forgive such treachery?
Something shifts in the envelope. Curiosity makes me tear it open. I withdraw two folded sheets. When I open them, a small key falls to the grass. For the moment, I ignore the key, eyes drawn reluctantly to the familiar script.
Dear Anna,
If you’re reading this, something has gone wrong. Julian will be dead. If I’m not, I know it’s just a matter of time before I will be. Betrayal is the one thing you can never forgive. The only thing I offer in my defense is that Julian said you wouldn’t be hurt. The ceremony was to open the door. Your role was to be the conduit through which Julian gained his power. It would need to be done only once. You were drugged so you wouldn’t remember. After, you and I would be free to live our lives. Together. Empty words. Lance Turner is no more. My affairs have been put in order. By the time you read this, my lawyers will have informed Adele of my death abroad. She will assume the property in Palm Springs. I ask only that you leave her in peace. She doesn’t know anything about what happened. The Malibu property is yours to do with as you wish. As for me, if you must come after me, I understand. You feel betrayed. You are so strong. It’s hard for you to understand that not all of us are. I have always been weak. I thought after what Julian did to me, you would see the weakness and our relationship would change. That you would no longer look at me as a lover. That you would ask what kind of man lets himself get whipped like a slave. Julian did it as punishment because I told him I wouldn’t go through with his plan. He did it because he could and because I let him. He did it because he thought you would leave me. I should have ended our relationship myself. I didn’t have the guts to do even that. When you didn’t leave, I started to believe what Julian had been telling me since the day we met. That you and I were destined to be together once the prophecy was fulfilled. One night in exchange for a lifetime. It’s when I stopped fighting. It’s when I agreed to help. More empty words, but I wanted you to know. I did love you, Anna. I always will.
Lance
My hand crushes the letter into a ball.
Love. My only consolation is that I never told the bastard that I loved him. A small, meaningless triumph but a satisfying one nonetheless.
I look around for the key that fell from the envelope when I withdrew the letter and pluck it from the grass. It’s a slender, brass key with a numbers printed on the head.
A locker key.
For the first time since I awakened in the cave, I feel a glimmer of hope. If this is what I think it is, Lance may have earned himself a quick death instead of a long, painful one.
* * *
At four thirty people start filtering into the airport. Uniformed pilots and flight attendants and security people, and then the less obvious cadre of reservationists and gate attendants and janitors in one-piece jumpsuits. At five thirty, promptly, the doors are opened to a small group of customers who, like me, are waiting to be on their way.
In my halting French, I ask one of the security guards where I can find the casiers. He points down a hall at the end of the ticket counter.
The number on the key is 118. When I find the locker, insert the key and see what’s inside, a thrill of relief washes over me.
Wallet. Credit cards. Passport.
Another note.
We left your plane at the borne privée. Proceed through the VIP lounge and inquire at the concierge desk. They will put you in touch with a pilot.
Another grievance to add to the list. The bastard used my own plane to transport me here. What did they tell security when they manhandled me off? That I was incapacitated by what? Illness? Did they say I was infectious to avoid close scrutiny?
No matter now. I find the VIP lounge and enlist
the help of a trim, sophisticated young woman who speaks perfect English. She assures me that she will have no trouble making the necessary arrangements to secure a crew and have my plane readied for the trip home. She hands me a manifest to look over and sign.
The cost is staggering. I could have flown round trip commercially a dozen times in first class for far less. When I prepare to offer a credit card, however, she waves it aside.
“No, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Turner took care of it. He paid in advance. I’m afraid it will take several hours, however, before all is ready. You are welcome to stay here. Food and drink are available in the bar. Spa facilities are through the door in back. You may shower and change if you wish.”
I nod my thanks and turn away. A shower sounds good. You have no idea how dirty you can feel until a demon in a man suit rubs himself all over you.
I noticed a few shops on my way to the VIP lounge so I head there now. Like the airport in San Diego there aren’t any clothing stores. No designer boutiques. Not even the equivalent of a Gap. I end up buying a little tangerine-colored beach cover-up that will have to do as a dress and a pair of sandals at a surf shop called Quiksilver.
Not exactly my style. When I hold it up, the dress hits mid-thigh .
At least it’s clean.
* * *
It takes a little over three hours before I’m finally allowed to board. The pilot and copilot are American.
“Good to see you looking so well,” the pilot says to me, extending a hand. “Mr. Turner said he was bringing you here to recuperate from an illness. Obviously, you have.”
He’s young, early thirties, oily—his hair, his obsequious smile, his voice.
I smile back, though it feels more like a grimace. The lie is hard to swallow. What I want to do is beat my chest and ask how he could have been so stupid. Did I look like I was ill? Or did I look like I was drugged and being kidnapped?
Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe he couldn’t have known. Somehow, though, I think it more likely the money he was paid for the charter smoothed away any misgivings he may have harbored about the way I was brought on board.
He leaves for the cockpit. The copilot takes care of the door. He’s a little older, forty maybe, and when he’s through latching and securing, he joins me in the main cabin.
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