“So, I’m about to become the head honcho of the North American tribe?”
“No. You are about to become head honcho of the whole shebang.”
No. Not going to happen. The impulse to run screaming from this ridiculous scenario is tempered only by the realization that Frey would track me down. He knows where I live. May as well let him finish spinning his fairy tale. I carefully modulate my expression and voice to reflect only curiosity when in reality what I’m feeling is panic. I think Frey is close to jumping off the sanity cliff, and Culebra is right there teetering on the brink with him.
“Why haven’t I heard of these thirteen tribes before?” I congratulate myself for asking an intelligent question on an absurd subject.
Frey fixes me with the same kind of look that I used to get from Williams. I didn’t like it then, I don’t like it now. Still, I hold my tongue and wait for the answer.
“Williams would have gladly told you anything you wanted to know about your vampire heritage. You wouldn’t give him a chance. Now you have no choice but to learn. Vampire society is somewhat decentralized. Each tribe governs itself. The thirteen only gather for a watershed event—like the coming of a Chosen One. It will mark your—” He hesitates, obviously suspecting how I’m going to react when he finishes the sentence. “Well, for lack of a better word, your coronation.”
He suspects right. I’m on my feet before the last syllable of the word “coronation” has left his lips.
“This is beyond ridiculous. Frey, you and I have become good friends in a very short time. You’ve never let me down when I’ve come to you with a problem. I admire and respect you. But you have to know how crazy this sounds. I don’t know how many ways I can say it. I don’t want any part of this. There must be an escape clause. For argument’s sake, tell me, what would happen if I don’t show up?”
He counters with a quiet, “What about David?”
“We don’t even know for sure if Judith Williams has him. You and I will check that out tonight. If what I suspect is true, and he’s at Avery’s, we’ll get him out. In any case, there has to be a way I can refuse to go through with this. I’m not the one they want. I spend most of my time trying to forget what I’ve become. Surely, the leader of the world’s vampires would be someone who doesn’t spend the greater part of her life trying to be human. There has got to be a better candidate.”
Frey lets me finish. He releases a breath, places both hands on the table, leans over it. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. Everything I read, though, is very specific. There is one chosen, he or she is marked, at the anniversary of that vampire’s becoming, a change occurs. The Chosen One becomes the leader and the path for the next two hundred years is determined.”
“Well, there you have it.” I slam my fist on the table again for emphasis. “I have no mark.”
Culebra has been silent during this exchange between Frey and me. “Are you sure?” he asks now. “When was the last time you looked at yourself in a mirror?”
The look I throw him is scathing. “Hello. Vampire. You know the answer to that. But I don’t need a mirror to know whether or not I have some kind of magical mark.”
Frey’s expression turns introspective, as if searching his memory. “Maybe we’re being too literal,” he says then. “Or maybe I misinterpreted the meaning of the word ‘mark.’”
He drops into his chair and shuffles through the beer-soaked pages. Then he dips into the briefcase and retrieves the book. He reads first from the book, then consults his papers, until he finds what he’s looking for.
“I’ll be damned,” he says. “I think I was wrong. The word I translated as ‘mark’ may not be a physical characteristic at all. It could just as easily be interpreted as powers not ordinarily attributed to a vampire.”
He grins at me, which is not at all comforting considering what follows. “Remember what happened in Palm Springs, Anna? You went into a burning garage to save Lance. And what about your evolving instinct to sense evil? Williams didn’t know about that one, did he? How you reacted the first time you met Underwood?”
“I wish I’d told him. Maybe he’d still be alive.”
Culebra turns a startled face my way. “What does Frey mean? What happened in Palm Springs?”
I give him a quick rundown, realizing by watching his reaction that he’s now fully committed to the crazy idea that I am indeed who Frey believes me to be.
When I stop talking, he turns to Frey. “Why didn’t I know any of this? Why didn’t you tell me when you brought Judith Williams here?”
His harsh tone borders on accusatory, as if Frey betrayed his trust by not telling him what was happening with me.
Frey bristles, and I cut in.
“I didn’t tell you, either, Culebra, because it had nothing to do with Mrs. Williams. As for the Underwood thing, I thought I’d taken care of it. Stupid assumption.”
I switch my focus to Frey. He’s staring at Culebra in tense silence, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. I divert his attention with a hand on his arm. “Which proves my point. I wouldn’t put much store in that so-called ability to sniff out evil. Lance fooled me completely. He turned out to be as much a bastard as Underwood.”
Culebra says softly, “Lance’s betrayal was a sign of weakness, not of evil.”
I stare at him. Did he pick the details of Lance’s letter out of my head?
No matter.
The thought of what went on in the cave at Biarritz produces a backlash of weariness that swamps my senses. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m going back to the cottage.”
That pushes Frey’s resentment toward Culebra out of his head. He rounds on me. “I haven’t finished. I have much more to tell you. You have preparations to make. There is protocol to learn. You can’t pretend it isn’t going to happen, Anna. And you must be prepared.”
He is so earnest in his pleading, so accepting that what he found in that little book is the truth, that I haven’t the will or strength to fight it anymore. I put a hand on his arm, sincerity in my voice. “You can tell me more tonight. When we go to Avery’s.”
He relaxes at that, gathers his papers and that stupid book and rustles them back into the briefcase. “I’ll come over early,” he says. “Well before dark so we have time.”
Culebra is not so easily fooled. He is eyeing me the way a spider eyes a fly buzzing around a web. He sees the subtlety in my gesture, reads the intention behind the words. He guesses once we leave, the probability that Frey is going to get the chance to finish his tutorial is about as good as a fly’s chance to escape if it touches that web.
I let him. I let him know he’s right.
He cloaks his thoughts so Frey doesn’t intercept. Be careful, Anna. You are venturing into deep water. Don’t make the mistake of thinking because you want something to be so, it will be. There are some things in this world over which you have no control.
I meet his gaze, say nothing. So far as I can tell, since becoming vampire, I haven’t had control over anything that’s been done to me.
That stops.
Now.
* * *
I push every single word of this afternoon’s conversation out of my head on the drive home. I concentrate only on the mechanics of driving, on my weariness, on the bed I’m going to fall into the moment I get to the cottage. I’ve been up eighteen hours. A few hours’ sleep and I’ll be ready to face the only obstacle I intend to tonight. Judith Williams.
The cottage is cool and quiet, a haven from the bright, sand-reflected beach sun. I make sure the doors are locked, the drapes pulled, and let my head sink gratefully onto the pillow.
His smell hits me like a physical blow. It’s in the bedclothes. Floats on the air. Floods my thoughts like a rising tide.
Damn you, Lance.
I toss the pillow across the room, snatch sheets and blankets and tear them off the bed.
I won’t let him do this to me.
But the bare mattress st
ill retains the scent of us. Of sex and blood and passion.
My hands curl into fists. I’ll haul it down to the Dumpster tomorrow. After I have David back.
Right before I track the bastard down.
* * *
It’s only six when I awaken from a nap that did little to remedy a bad case of sleep deprivation. Vivid dreams of the cave in Biarritz were interspersed with equally vivid dreams of Lance—sexual images that my body responded to even as I slept.
When I open my eyes, my face is wet with tears and my body aching with loneliness.
I stumble into the bathroom, strip and force myself to step into a cold shower. The shock of the water is reviving. Sluggishness gives way to a sense of purpose, gloominess to renewed energy. I can’t let despair make me forget what tonight is all about. Finding David.
I dress for a night operation. Black jeans, black long-sleeved T-shirt, black tennis shoes. As I prepare, my mind circles around one thought like a buzzard around a carcass. I’m assuming an awful lot. I’m assuming Mrs. Williams took David. I’m assuming she’s taken him to Avery’s. I’m assuming that she’ll be expecting me. Valid assumptions from my perspective. She and her husband were friends with Avery. She knows our history as well as anyone.
If I’m wrong, then what?
I start over.
Once dressed, I’m antsy to get going. I wish now I hadn’t asked Frey along. My thought that he’d have a better chance to prowl the ground unnoticed as a panther made sense at the time I suggested it. Now all I can think of is the baggage that goes along with his participation.
I’ll have to listen to more of his bullshit about what he read in that stupid book.
It’s just before seven when the doorbell rings. I grab keys and my handbag, and run down the stairs to the front door.
I’m expecting Frey.
I’m not expecting the frowning, angry woman who pushes her way into my home the minute I open the door.
Tracey Banker projects her fury like a bullet seeking a target. And right now, I’m the bull’s-eye. She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before firing the shot.
“I know you weren’t happy when David brought me on board. I don’t expect us to become best buddies. But you have no right to lie to me. David is in trouble, and you better damn well let me help or I swear I’ll go to the cops and tell them you knew about it all along.”
She’s yelling and waving a piece of paper in my face. I pry it out of her hands. The first thing I notice is that it’s a copy of an email. An email addressed to me.
To me.
The second thing I notice is who it’s from: Judith Williams.
What the hell?
I turn it around and shove it toward her. “You always read other people’s mail?”
“Fucking good thing that I did.” She’s still yelling. “You had some guy call and tell me that you and David had gone out of town on a job. Wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. That’s not what this says. If I hadn’t opened it, by Tuesday it would be all over. David would be dead.”
There’s no way I can explain that I wanted her out of harm’s way. Or, more important, that this is none of her business. She’s in no mood to listen. Instead, I turn my back on her and concentrate on the paper in my hand.
Anna. You and I have a date with destiny. David is along for the ride. Whether or not he survives is entirely up to you. I know if he hasn’t already, your friend Daniel Frey will tell you what is expected of you. I also know your first impulse will be to find a way out. It’s why I took David. I suggest you spend less energy trying to avoid what will happen on Tuesday and more on learning from the Grimoire. Who knows? You may yet find an escape clause in the teachings. It’s the reason I arranged for Mr. Frey to find the book. I have no desire to hurt your partner. He seems like a good man. A little confused right now. I had no idea he was unaware of your true nature. Trust me when I say he is being well cared for. That can change, though. It’s up to you. Until Tuesday morning then—
Judith Williams
CHAPTER 37
Behind me I sense Tracey pacing like a caged lioness. As soon as she sees my hand lower the page, she pounces.
“Who is she? What does she mean you two have a date with destiny? Why is she holding David hostage? What’s that crap about your true nature?”
She grabs my arm and spins me toward her.
I let her. As long as she’s venting, I can try to figure a way out of this mess. She doesn’t recognize Judith Williams’ name, which is a plus. But Tracey was a cop who worked for Chief Williams. It won’t be long before something triggers a spark of recognition and she puts it together.
Crap. The only thing I can think to do is tie Tracey up and stick her in a closet. For three days? Not very practical.
Tracey still has her hand on my arm. She’s staring at me. “Your skin is cold.” She narrows her eyes. “The note said something about your true nature? What are you?”
The question catches me off guard. As does Tracey’s reaction. She jumps back and away. The fight drains out of her. Her eyes no longer blaze anger, they blaze fear. I smell it on her, mingling with the stink of that perfume she seems to bathe in. Sickly sweet. “What are you?” she asks again.
I try for menacing. “What do you think I am?”
Her expression morphs from terror to confusion. “But is David—?” Her voice drops off before she completes the question.
This may be the opening I need. “Is David like me? No. I’m vampire. He’s worse.” Then I laugh. “Are you serious? You think this is for real? This is a game we play. Like Dungeons and Dragons. You weren’t supposed to know about it. People tend to think it’s a little strange when adults play role-playing games. But it’s harmless. A way to blow off steam.”
She’s rubbing her hands together. “But you’re cold.”
“Poor circulation. Been a problem my whole life. It’s hell on your sex life. Men don’t like getting naked with an ice cube.”
Tracey draws a breath. “Then this whole thing—”
“Is a game. I’m sorry you misunderstood. We only do this once or twice a year but authenticity is part of the fun. We stage mock kidnappings, arrange ‘accidents.’ David will be very embarrassed when he learns you found out.”
I watch as she processes what I’ve told her. The fact that she reacted so violently to the idea that I might be something other than human is worrisome. But if I pursue that now, I risk destroying the illusion that the note is anything other than a game prop.
At last she relaxes. She looks uncomfortable as color floods her face. “I’m sorry I burst in here like a mad-woman,” she says. “First there was that call from David’s girlfriend, then this note. You really should have let me know what you were doing. Maybe I can play sometime, too?”
I have a hand on the small of her back, ushering her toward the door. “Maybe you can. But for now, this is our secret, all right?”
She nods. “I’ll hold down the office until you guys get back on Wednesday. Then I expect to hear all about your adventures.”
I smile and wave her out then lean back against the closed door. Is she for real? I thought I was gullible. Tracey not only bought the story, she wants to play with us next time.
This is why I hate taking on a new partner.
I peek out through the front window to make sure she’s gone. Then I turn my attention to the note.
Being right about Judith Williams holding David brings no great sense of satisfaction. She’s already killed two humans. She’s fed, but what happens when the hunger strikes again?
The second impression is that she and David seem to be talking. Why does he think he’s been taken? Did she really tell him I’m vampire? How did he react to that piece of news? She didn’t say where she’s holding him, either. I still believe I’m right about that one. Frey and I will check out Avery’s as planned tonight.
Frey. He found the book? How? A little detail he didn’t mention this afternoon. Of course, I di
dn’t ask. He has a vast library of supernatural reference books. I assumed it was part of that library.
Which begs the next question. Where did Judith Williams get it? If the book does contain a way for me to get out of this ridiculous situation, why would Williams leave it laying around? He never gave me any indication that I had a choice. Just the opposite. According to him, my destiny was well—predestined.
I haven’t moved from the door when there’s another knock. I jump as if scalded, heart pounding, clutch the note to my chest like a life preserver.
Jesus. Get a grip.
Another peek out the window at Frey’s familiar face and form. He stands looking straight at the door, still holding that briefcase and wearing those ridiculous glasses. He has a look of excited expectation. He’s dressed in black jeans, too, with a linen shirt and a leather jacket. A square-jawed Indiana Jones about to embark on a great adventure. I wish I could share his enthusiasm.
As I swing open the door to let him in, I thrust the email toward him.
He places the briefcase at his feet, removes the glasses from his face and slips them into a jacket pocket before smoothing the paper to read what’s written on it.
I give him a minute. “You found the book?”
He glances up at me, then back down at the paper. “Not found. Exactly. More like discovered in a box of books sent anonymously to me last week. Happens all the time. Witches, warlocks, all sorts of supernaturals will me their libraries when they pass on. They know I am a Keeper.”
“Keeper?”
“Of the secrets. My father was one before me. My son will inherit the mantle when I pass on. It’s tradition.”
There is so much in that one simple declaration that demands clarification I scarcely know what to ask first. No, not true. I know exactly what to ask first. My voice torques up to screech.
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