Blood Drive asc-2

by Jeanne C. Stein

  It looks for all the world like a telemarketing center.

  I shake my head. “What are they doing? Selling penny stocks or junk bonds?”

  Frey shakes his head, too, but in a way that indicates he thinks I’m an idiot. He ignores the question, and with a hand at my elbow, steers me to the back of the room.

  In this room, there are other doors. Substantial looking wooden doors with no windows or peepholes. He leads me to one, knocks quietly. Then waits.

  “Come in, Daniel,” says a cheery voice.

  I glance up at him and start to ask how anyone could possibly know who was out here, then stop myself. After all I’ve seen today, why would I question this?

  Once inside, two impressions hit me immediately. One is that there is a feeling of tranquility in this room unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The second is that it emanates from a woman who is one of the most exotic creatures I’ve ever seen.

  She reminds me of a fairy-tale princess, tall, graceful, slender of form and fair of face. She’s dressed in a long rose-colored smock of some silky fabric that molds to her body and moves like mist around her. Her hair is golden in color, framing her face with tendrils that reach to her shoulders. I couldn’t begin to guess at her age. Her face is the perfect oval, seamless, set off by Wedgwood blue eyes, elegant cheekbones and lush lips. I’m staring at those eyes, unable to pull my own away, when she begins to laugh softly.

  “You’re staring at me, Anna,” she says.

  That pulls me back. “You know my name? Has Frey told you about me?”

  “No,” she crosses to stand in front of me. One hand reaches toward my face, but she stops herself. “Do you mind?” she asks.

  “Mind?”

  “If I touch your face?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’d like to get an idea of what you look like.”

  It takes an instant for me to comprehend. “You’re blind?”

  “Quite.”

  “But how did you know I was staring at you?”

  Frey moves to her side. “She’s an empath, Anna. She feels what you feel, but she only sees through touch.”

  She’s standing in front of me, those wide eyes calm, expectant.

  “Can you project what you see?” I ask her. “Would I see it too?”

  “Ah,” she says. “It’s been awhile since you’ve seen your reflection.” She tilts her head. “But not that long, I suspect. It’s your first visit here.”

  It would be interesting to get an idea how I’ve changed since I’ve become vampire. I know what my parents and David say. But to actually see an image is tempting.

  I take a step back. “Later, maybe,” I say.

  I expect a flicker of disappointment or irritation to ruffle the perfect serenity of her face, but the only irritation comes from Frey.

  “What’s the matter, Anna? Afraid of what you’ll see?”

  I’m getting tired of his attitude. I’ve already apologized for biting him. What more can I do? Bitterness and a tinge of warning creep into my tone. “I’m here to see Trish. Not play mind games.”

  Frey ignores me. He touches the empath’s arm very gently, drawing her attention to him. “I’m sorry, Sorrel. Anna hasn’t been otherworldly very long. She doesn’t easily accept what is.”

  Sorrel? An empath named Sorrel? I’m trapped in a Star Trek episode. A small bubble of laughter escapes before I can stop it.

  Frey rounds on me. This time he says it. “You're an idiot, Anna.”

  But Sorrel places a hand on his arm. “No, Daniel. Anna is right. She is here to see her niece and assure herself that the girl is unharmed.”

  My attention snaps to Sorrel. “My niece?”

  Sorrel smiles and her hand brushes mine. The smile and the touch wash over me in a golden wave that warms my blood and calms my agitation. “Yes.”

  And with that single word, the irritation I’ve felt for Frey, the anxiety over Trish, the rage directed at what’s been done to her melts away like ice in the desert. It’s just gone. And with it all desire to seek retribution fades into nothingness. All I feel is peace.

  A trick? I shake my head to clear it. Nothing happens. I remain trapped in a vapor lock of serenity.

  “Stop.” It takes tremendous energy to form the word.

  Sorrel quirks an eyebrow.“Stop?”

  “Yes.” My voice doesn’t sound right. The edge is gone. I want it back. “Don’t do this. I expect you mean well. But I want you to remove whatever spell you’ve cast on me.”

  Frey takes a step toward me. “It’s not a spell, Anna. It’s Sorrel. Her presence. Her gift is to draw pain and replace it with serenity.”

  “Then make her go away.”

  I expect Frey to argue, tell me that I’ve lost my mind.

  But he doesn’t.

  He looks instead at Sorrel.

  And she looks at me. “I understand, Anna. There are things you must feel in order to do what you must do. I will leave you to your visit. But later, if you change your mind-”

  She lets the words hang in the air between us like a promise between lovers, freely given and open-ended. I believe her. I also know the kind of tranquility she offers has no place in my world. I think she knows it too.

  She starts to leave, but I stop her. “Wait. Before you go, how do you know about Trish? How can you be sure she is my niece?”

  The empath raises a hand as if to touch my cheek, but draws it away before making contact. “It’s in the blood,” she says softly.

  Frey follows Sorrel out the door, and with her departure, my head clears. Just like that. I’m myself again and all the pent up emotion of the last few days comes surging back. It feels-good.

  For the first time, I notice the room. It’s not very large, maybe ten by ten, furnished only with two big buff-colored leather chairs placed facing each other. That’s it as far as furniture. No tables or lamps. I glance up at the ceiling. The same powerful overhead lights as the room outside, filling what I imagine would be a pretty dark space with artificial sunlight. But where I expect to hear the hum of fluorescent or incandescent bulbs, there’s only silence. Strange from so powerful a light source. But maybe it’s some kind of solar thing, funneling energy from the outside. There’s also an odor-not unpleasant-like a subtle perfume. A hint of lavender, a hint of citrus.

  I have only an instant to consider this before the door opens again and I prepare myself for what is sure to be another rant from Frey.

  But it’s not Frey.

  It’s Trish. She grins when she sees me and waves a hand.

  “Isn’t this place cool?” she says. “I can’t wait for my mom to see it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I barely recognize the girl standing in front of me. Trish is smiling, her eyes bright and her face radiant. Gone is the aura of sadness and fear that surrounded her before. She’s wearing a clean pair of jeans with a crisp white blouse and a pair of loafers on her feet. Her hair is brushed back from her face and shines with a healthy glow. She smells faintly of the same scent-lavender and lemon. Could it be soap or shampoo?

  She looks happy.

  Sorrel again?

  I take a step toward her. “Are you all right?”

  She nods. “Of course. Everyone is so nice. Mr. Frey was right when he said I’d be safe here.” She lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper, though the smile never wavers. “I’m not sure what this place is exactly. Mr. Frey said it was some kind of secret headquarters, like you see in movies. But I’m not supposed to know any more than that or he’d have to kill me.”

  She giggles at a joke I don’t find the least bit funny. Just as I wonder about Trish’s demeanor.

  I motion to one of the two chairs and beckon Trish to take a seat. She does. I follow suit, facing her, feeling like a counselor in a therapy session. Maybe that’s what this room is used for.

  But I don’t know how to begin this session.

  Trish is looking at me, an amused half-smile t
ouching the corners of her mouth. “I figure you’re here because things are better now, right? You’ve caught those men and it’s safe for me to go home. Ryan must be going crazy. I wasn’t allowed to call him from here. Mr. Frey said he would let him know that I was all right. Ryan wouldn’t believe him, though. He’d want to talk to me himself, so we’d better stop by his house on the way home.”

  Her words run together in a bubbling torrent of joyful speculation. She seems to have completely forgotten her mother’s part in what happened to her-or to have excused it. I can’t believe that one any more than I can understand the other.

  “You want to go home?” I ask her gently.

  She nods. Something in my expression must trigger doubt then, because the smile falters, a flicker of uncertainty dims the brightness in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  I wait a heartbeat too long to answer.

  Trish jumps to her feet. “Has something happened to my mother?”

  I wish I could come up with some way to make this easier for her. I actually consider reminding her of the reason she’s here, but that would be replacing one horror with another. I push myself up out of the chair.

  “Trish, I’m sorry. Something has happened. Your mother was killed last night. The police are looking into it. And I will, too, of course.”

  I realize I’m rambling, the same way Trish did moments before. But Trish is staring at me, empty-eyed and slack-jawed, all traces of life gone from her face. I take a step toward her, but she backs away.

  “I’m really sorry, Trish. I wish I could make this easier for you. Your grandmother is here. She doesn’t know where you are. If you’d like, I can get a message to her.”

  As I speak the words, I want to bite them back. Why did I say that? I can’t imagine that cold, arrogant bitch being of any comfort to Trish. I just don’t know what else to offer. Trish doesn’t know about the relationship she has to my family. I’m afraid telling her will only add to her confusion about her mother.

  Trish is staring at me, but with the shocked, glazed expression of one whose thoughts are turned inward. I can only imagine what terrible images are projecting themselves inside her head.

  “Trish? Talk to me, honey.”

  Comprehension creeps into her eyes. Like a drowning man who has been pulled from the sea, she draws a deep, ragged breath. Her chest heaves, but there are no tears. She begins to shake. I slip out of my jacket and hold it out to her. But once again, she draws back.

  “How did it happen?” she asks.

  The picture of Carolyn’s battered face and the knowledge of what had been done to her comes rushing back. But I could no more tell Trish any of that than I could remind her of why she is here. I lay the jacket on the back of a chair, using the time to gather my thoughts before answering.

  “The police aren’t sure.” It seems the least painful response.

  But she grasps the ambiguity and it sparks a flash of anger. “Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t treat me like a child. You know what happened to me. You know the part my mother played in it. Was she killed like Barbara? Was she killed because of me?”

  I realize now that the image Trish projected when she first walked into this room had nothing to do with Sorrel. Trish wanted desperately to believe the things that happened to her were a nightmare from which she had finally awakened. Twenty-four hours in a safe environment and the possibility that her life might be her own again had made her giddy with youthful optimism.

  God, I do not want to be the one to shatter the illusion. And yet, this is the second time I’ve been the bearer of bad news. Telling her about Barbara was bad enough. How on earth can I tell her about her mother?

  I’ve never felt so helpless. I’m the adult. I should have instincts about this sort of thing. But seeing the distress in her face and the dread in her eyes renders me speechless.

  I wish my mother was here.

  The door opens, and for just an instant I irrationally think maybe it’s my mother come to rescue us.

  But of course, it’s not. Frey comes in and his expression softens when he looks at Trish.

  “Anna told you about your mother? I’m so sorry.”

  Trish goes to him, letting him put his arms around her, leaning against him and accepting from him the kind of solace she refused from me.

  It’s a bitter rebuff. If I’m to believe Sorrel, Trish is my niece. I should be the one comforting her. I take a step toward them.

  I look into Frey’s eyes and he seems to be reading my reaction. He shakes his head gently in a warning to respect Trish’s feelings.

  It stops me. I know he’s right. Trish needs to have someone she can open up to. I’d hoped it would be me. But we’ve only known each other one day. Frey is a teacher she likes and respects. It’s natural she would choose him.

  I don’t have to like it, though.

  Frey guides Trish over to one of the chairs and gently lowers her into it. She sits, clutching one of his hands as if afraid to let go. He smiles down at her and then turns to me.

  “There’s someone outside who wants to talk to you,” he says.

  “To me?” I ask, surprised. “Who knows I’m here?”

  He shakes his head, sitting down beside Trish. “Don’t worry. It’s someone you know. He’s waiting for you outside the door.”

  His words are a subtle push for me to leave the two of them alone. I bend down to look at Trish, to engage her eyes. “I’ll be right outside, Trish. If you need me, Frey will come get me.”

  She is looking at me, but I can’t tell whether my words are registering. All I see in her eyes is a dreadful void.

  I straighten up. “Frey, can I talk to you outside a minute?”

  He seems hesitant, but the expression on my face must convey the meaning behind my words. I’m not asking. He opens his hand, freeing himself from Trish’s grasp. She gives a little gasp and reaches for him again, but he strokes her hair and says softly, “It’s all right. I’ll be right outside the door.”

  She doesn’t look reassured but she lets her hand drop into her lap and offers no objection.

  Frey follows me out of the room. As soon as the door is closed behind us, I round on him.

  “What are you going to say to her?” I snap. “You don’t know what happened to Carolyn.”

  Frey is looking past me.

  I turn, too, and at the same time a familiar voice interjects itself into my head.He knows, Anna, I filled him in.

  And there is Chief Williams, out of uniform now, but looking as clearly at home in these surroundings as he did an hour or so ago in his office.

  Chapter Thirty

  Why does it not surprise me that you’re here?

  Before he can answer me, Frey must send him a telepathic message, because he says,Yes, go back to the girl. Anna and I will talk in my office.

  I put a hand on Frey’s arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. I’m not leaving.”

  Williams motions Frey to go on. “My office here. We’re not going anywhere.”

  Frey obviously says something else that, since I cut our psychic link by biting him, I’m not privy to. By the weary expression on Williams’s face, I can guess it’s not anything complimentary nor is it anything with which Williams takes umbrage. It has to be about me.

  When Frey leaves us, Williams’s temper erupts. “You bit Frey? What were you thinking?”

  “What was I thinking? You let me leave your office this afternoon thinking he was a monster. He wouldn’t answer my questions. What the fuck did you expect me to do?”

  “And if I had told you that Trish was safe with him, would you have believed me?”

  Of course not. I don’t say it aloud or project it, but it’s the obvious answer and Williams knows it.

  He lowers his head and peers at me. “Besides, you should thank me for getting you out of there. Otherwise, you’d have Frick and Frack from the FBI on your tail as we speak.” He jerks a thumb. “My office is right down the hall. We can talk there.”


  With a glance at the door behind which Frey and Trish are no doubt discussing her mother’s death, I reluctantly follow Williams. Disappointment and a feeling of inadequacy squeeze at my heart. I want to be there for Trish, to be the one she turns to for comfort and healing. I’m family. Frey is a stranger.

  She doesn’t know that, Anna.

  Williams’s tone is not harsh or severe, but is laced with a kind of sympathy. Not typical in his dealings with me. He’s stopped in front of another of those nondescript doors that line the back of the great room. He holds it open.Come in. Please.

  Please? A courtesy? You must be feeling guilty about letting me think the worst of Frey.

  He reads the disdain in my tone but shrugs it off.Frey is the one who should be angry about that. After all, he’s the one you attacked because of it.

  Contempt isn’t fazing Williams. He must have something really important to discuss.

  Unlike his spacious quarters at SDPD, this office is small, nondescript, austere. It looks to be the same size as the one I shared with Trish. The only furnishings are a metal desk and two straight-backed chairs-one behind the desk and one in front of it. There is nothing on the desk, not a telephone or computer.

  Williams pulls the chair from behind the desk and positions it beside the other. He motions for me to sit.

  “Why not?” I respond. “I’m sure you have a lot to explain. Might as well get comfortable.” But as my butt hits the cold, hard seat, I amend that. “Well, at least as comfortable as possible. I take it you’re not such a big shit here, huh? Don’t warrant padded chairs.”

  But Williams acts impervious to my insults. His expression never wavers from polite concern, and his eyes don’t spark or flash with anger or annoyance. A warning spasm of alarm erupts inside me.

  What’s going on?

  Williams sits back in his chair, looking hard at me, keeping his thoughts to himself. I let it go on for a moment before I repeat, “What’s going on? What did you get me in here for?”