Forcefully, I calm myself, motioning at him with the Taser. Let's take a walk.
But he doesn't seem the least bit concerned by the Taser or by my thoughts. Why would I want to take a walk with you?
Because if you don't, I'm going to blast you with this thing and drag you into the bushes where I'll happily bash your head in with a rock.
He clucks his tongue. My, my. That's an awful lot of attitude for a little girl.
He's baiting me and I'm swallowing it. I have to mentally give myself a thump on the head and once more drag myself back from the anger threatening my good sense. Being this close to the bastard who threw my life in such disarray is having a much more profound affect on me than I expected. I have to remind myself why I'm here. David.
He picks through all this and finally reacts. Who's David?
That triggers another spasm of blind rage . Don't play with me, Donaldson. Believe me, I'd love nothing better than to kill you.
The only reason I haven't already is because you're going to tell me what you've done with David.
He reflects a moment, searching my thoughts. David? Oh, the guy from the bar. Now that was a dirty trick. And I saw you with him at the fire, didn't I?
Which is another thing I have to thank you for, you miserable bastard. Why'd you do that, anyway? You must have known I wasn't inside. Even if you hadn't gone in, you would have felt it.
He's shaking his head at me, as if I'm speaking gibberish. I don't know where you're getting your information, but you need a new source. I didn't set that fire. I didn't even know it was your home.
Oh. Right. You just happened to be in the neighborhood when it burned.
As a matter of fact, yes. I was summoned. I don't know by whom. But when I saw you, I beat it out of there. I figured you would be a little pissed at me for—well, you know.
Donaldson, you're a damn liar, but you're right about seriously pissing me off. I don't give a shit about the fire right now. I want to know where you've taken David.
I told you, I don't know anything about your friend.
That does it. I step right up to him, pushing the Taser at his gut. If I pull this trigger, I wonder what will happen? Will you jump and wiggle like a fish on a hook or just drop like a rock? Either way works for me.
He still isn't reacting with anything close to fear. In fact, blind indifference is the only emotion bubbling to the surface. It only makes me angrier. I have the Taser on contact stun and I pull the trigger.
A Taser shoots 50,000 volts of energy at .162 amps to penetrate the nervous system and render the victim immobile. It doesn't matter where you aim either, because the entire body is covered with a neural net. I have the thing shoved right into Donaldson's midsection when I fire, yet I'm not getting the reaction I expect.
In fact, I'm getting no reaction at all.
He's staring down at me with a puzzled expression that turns almost immediately into a derisive grin. Oh, Anna, Anna. You have so much to learn.
Then he backhands me with a wallop that sends me flying into the dirt. It's so unexpected, it takes me a minute to shake away the cobwebs. But he doesn't follow up, which I'm going to make him regret. I jump to my feet, blood pounding with rage. I feel it in my head and coursing through my body, an unrestrained fury. It's feral and ugly and it's going to allow me to do what I should have done the moment Donaldson appeared.
When I attack this time, it's with my fists and teeth. He's taken by surprise at the ferocity, but he recovers quickly. He's holding back, making the mistake of thinking he's stronger because he's male. He's forgetting an important fact of nature. The female is always the best hunter, often the more brutal. When I come at him, he tries to parry the blows, to step out of my reach. I don't let him. I keep inside, putting every ounce of vampire strength into each punch. I aim at his stomach with my hands, his throat with my teeth. I can wear him down, he has the disadvantage of having consumed a lot of beer, but I don't want to take the time. With a final, decisive thrust, I have him down, on his back in the dirt. I'm pummeling his stomach, my teeth at his jugular.
Hey, Donaldson, are you awake? I want you awake. It's no fun otherwise.
For the first time, I detect a little concern percolating through the drunken haze in Donaldson's head. It's finally dawning on him that he doesn't have the upper hand. He starts to send out an “SOS” to his pals in the saloon, but I stop that with a snarl. My teeth are at his neck.
Don't. I'll tear your throat out. It's a little trick I learned from you.
He backs off, his mind closing down. What do you want?
I told you. I want to know where you've taken David.
And I told you, I don't have him. Look, check it out. You can get into my head. What do you see?
I use no finesse this time. I hold his head against the dirt and stab into his thoughts with the power of a blow torch. I read confusion at what's happening; aggravation that I've overpowered him; smugness that he could take me if he really wanted to; lust at the feeling of my pelvis pressing against his crotch. He starts squirming under me as that last thought provokes a physical reaction.
God. Donaldson, you're a pervert.
He starts to sit up, but I push him back down. This time, I have my arm across his throat. I'm still not convinced he doesn't have David. And it's lowering my tolerance level more each minute.
He senses that I've reached the end of my patience. He tries to shake me off, but I'm not about to let him go. I press my elbow against his jugular. It's instinctive, I guess. If he was a mortal, I'd go for the windpipe but since we vampires don't breathe, it makes sense that pressure on the jugular would produce the same result.
It does. When I feel him at the verge of losing consciousness, I ease off just enough to let my voice ring through.
Where is he?
Donaldson chokes and shakes his head.
I apply pressure again.
Where is he?
This time, there's real panic in his voice. I don't know. You have to believe me. I didn't take him. Why would I?
To get me here, asshole. To finish what you started in that parking lot.
What sense does that make? You're no threat to me. Look at us. Who's on top right now?
It rings true. Yet I don't want to believe him. If he doesn't have David, who does?
I think I know.
What?
I think I know who may have your friend.
I lean back a little to see his face. If this is just bullshit, Donaldson—
No. Get off me and I'll tell you.
I don't think so. I think you'll tell me now.
My elbow is back at his throat. I lean into it. His head swims. I detect little pinpoints of exploding light. It's just like watching fireworks. Interesting. I press a little harder.
Donaldson's eyes are wide, the alarm reflected in his head “tastes” like a potent cocktail, part adrenaline, part fear. I savor it, letting it roll over my own thoughts, become part of my own consciousness. It's a great feeling. Powerful. Sexy. I understand the connection between power and sex now. The realization that I can snuff out a life—even one as worthless as Donaldson's—is heady stuff.
Anna, enough.
The same voice that came to me at Avery's is back. My own voice. I respond the same way.
I don't want to stop.
You have to. You can't kill him.
Why not?
Because it's wrong.
Not good enough.
Then think about what happens to David if you kill him. He says he may know who has him.
He's probably lying.
Can you take that chance?
Reluctantly, I ease up. No.
I roll off him and lay staring into a cold, dark sky. I feel him beside me, gathering strength. When I'm sure he's recovered enough to answer my question, I yank him into a sitting position.
This is your last chance. Who has David?
But before he can answer, there is a whine, like the whir of a
n insect. Donaldson jerks under my hands. He looks down at his chest in disbelief.
I follow his gaze. The point of an arrow protrudes through his shirt. His mouth opens and closes, like a fish struggling to breathe air.
I look on in disbelief as he crumbles under my grip, falling in on himself, dissolving finally in a cloud of ash that gusts away as a breath of air blows over us.
It happens just that quickly, and then he's gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It takes a second to grasp what happened. But in that second I become aware of a stirring somewhere in front of me, deep in the shadows. I hear the click of a crossbow as it is cocked and know I have only an instant to respond before that humming translates into an arrow honing in on my chest.
I dive for cover, the only cover available, a small clump of rocks. I hunker down, trying to make myself small. The humming comes closer and an arrow whizzes over my head.
Fear clutches at my throat. I send out a probe to see if I can pick up on anything, identify the attacker. But nothing comes back. I can't even tell if my attacker is human or vamp, male or female.
Not that it makes any difference. A wooden arrow through the heart is fatal no matter who's holding the crossbow.
The bow is cocked again. Acute hearing isn't always a blessing. I brace myself, burrowing into the dirt like a mole. Again the buzzing and the silent breath of air as the arrow whistles past. How long is he going to keep trying?
The question is answered a heartbeat later when another arrow flies toward me. This time, though, the aim has improved. I cry out as the arrow buries itself in the calf of my left leg. I've been concentrating on protecting my upper body. My hiding place left my legs exposed. Obviously, something that didn't go unnoticed.
Red-hot pain radiates upward until it centers somewhere in my chest. It's not a fatal shot, but it's definitely going to slow me down when and if I can make a break for it.
I reach down and yank. I have first hand experience about how quickly we vampires heal but it still hurts like a son of a bitch when that arrow tears through. Tears of pain and anger burn my cheeks. I hold on to the arrow, thinking it will make a good weapon if whoever's out there is a vampire and comes closer for the kill shot.
I hope he does. Besides the arrow, I slip my gun out of the holster. I'm ready for anything now.
But nothing happens. No more arrows. No sound of footsteps. The only thing I hear is the music from the cantina behind me, obliterated from my consciousness until now by the intensity of my concentration on the attacker. I'm pretty sure he's gone. My vamp warning system has gone inert, no more DEFCON sirens blaring in my head.
With a groan of relief, I lay back on the sand, massaging torn calf muscles. There's the warm, viscous feel of blood on my fingers.
Curious, I raise the hand to my lips and taste.
Then the complete grossness of what I just did, hits. I can't believe I just tasted my own blood.
Still.
The fingers dip for another sample.
It's not too bad.
Anna, get a grip.
My little voice is back. And with it, a wave of sorrow that shakes my very core.
David.
I'm no closer to finding him. Donaldson was my only hope. The only thing I've learned from this fiasco is that I'm pretty certain he was telling me the truth. He didn't kidnap David.
But he thought he knew who did.
Or so he said.
Jesus.
Cautiously, I pull myself into a sitting position. When I scan the area, I pick up nothing but desert. Nothing living except things that scamper, skitter, or slither. It makes even my dead skin crawl.
I consider corralling one of Donaldson's vamp pals to corroborate his story. In this place, having a kidnap victim would be currency, like money in the bank. Maybe he bragged about it, even let on where he was holding the guy.
But it doesn't ring true. Donaldson was completely vulnerable to my little mind fuck and he gave nothing away. And he was really scared at the end. He knew I wanted to kill him.
There's nothing more for me to do here. With another groan, I pick myself up. My right leg gives a little when I try to put weight on it, but it holds. I know I won't be jogging back to the car, but I can walk.
Still clutching the arrow in one hand and the gun in the other, I limp out of Beso de la Muerte .
It takes me a lot longer to get back to the car than it did to reach Donaldson's hideout. Even with vampire healing, the pain limits me to a sedate hobble. I snatch up a dead branch to use as a crutch, but it's not much help. All I get for my effort is a hand full of slivers.
Forty-five long minutes later, I reach the Explorer. Thankfully, it's still where I left it. I don't think I could have walked all the way to Tijuana. This time, I shrug off the holster and lock up my gun and the handcuffs in the glove compartment. I don't know how I'll explain my bloody leg if I'm stopped at the border, but I don't want to complicate matters by getting caught with a gun. I don't have a clue what happened to the Taser. I suppose it's lying somewhere in the dirt in back of the saloon. It wasn't much help anyway.
Now all I want to do is go home.
Go home.
And where exactly is home?
A pall settles over me as I get back on the road. I still have no clue where David is or how he is. I'd figured Donaldson was the only one who had motive to take him. Now I'm back at square one. Worse than square one. Who else hates me enough to do this?
David and I brought in a lot of fugitives in the last couple of years, but we're relatively new in the business. All of our collars who were convicted are still cooling their heels in prisons around the country. Of course, it could be the relatives of someone we turned in. But what would be the point of that? Especially since no one came forward to take credit. Doesn't make sense.
The border crossing approaches and I glance down to see how bad my leg looks. I'm glad it's my left leg, the one closest to the door, because it's dark and in the shadows, it's not possible to detect the torn pants or dark smears of blood. It's very late, too, almost three in the morning, and the bored guard asks the perfunctory questions of place of birth and if I have anything to declare.
I force a smile and say, “San Diego, California, and no, nothing to declare."
When he waves me through, I'm tempted to add, “Except for the fact that I've just spent the night looking for my kidnapped friend in one of Mexico's lesser known tourist spots, where I was shot with an arrow and almost dusted. On top of all that, I'm no closer to finding my friend because the vampire who I thought kidnapped him said he didn't know anything about it, and now he's dead so I'll never know for sure. I'm so tired, I can hardly keep my eyes open. It'll be a miracle if I even make it back to Avery's. And, oh yeah, there's one more thing. I hope to God I never have to come back here. Ever."
But, of course, getting hysterical in front of a Mexican border guard wouldn't be in my best interest, so those declarations I keep to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I head for Avery's. I don't know where else to go. I have no home. I can't bear the thought of being at David's without him. Avery was right about where to find Donaldson. Maybe he can help me figure out what to do next.
Tomorrow morning I will go back to David's to see if I've missed something—anything to indicate what might have happened to him. I will bring in the police, too. I can't let any more time go by without asking for help.
My leg throbs. The pain is a good traveling companion, though. It keeps me awake. I realize it's been two full days since I've gotten any real sleep. The night I spent with Avery, we didn't get much rest.
Which brings my thoughts to Max. Seeing him in Beso de la Muerte fills me with questions. Could he know about the existence of vampires? Or is he only aware that his boss uses the place as a hideout for his henchman? It would open up a world of possibilities if Max is accepting of vampires.
But my saner voice knows it unlikely he would be. Esp
ecially if the only vampires he has contact with are the ones in that godforsaken place.
And besides, when he learns what I've done with Avery—
I don't want to even think about it.
Instead, I go on autopilot, concentrating on the drive up Soledad Mountain Road. I've made this trip so many times in the last forty-eight hours, I don't even have to think about it. I hope Avery is awake and doesn't mind my crashing at his home tonight. In that big house, he's bound to have a guestroom. I seem to be making this a habit, appearing at his doorstep in the middle of the night.
But I don't even get as far as the front door. Avery appears at the car the minute I pull up. He must have been waiting for me because he's dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows. His face is full of anxious concern when he sees my leg.
"What happened?” he asks, sweeping me into his arms as if I were a doll.
"Wow,” I say, so surprised by being picked up that way I actually let him carry me. “You must have been worried. This is quite a reaction. You're actually speaking to me—with your voice."
He brings me into the living room and settles me on a couch facing the fireplace.
"How did you know I'd be back tonight?"
He's kneeling at my side, worrying at the cuffs of my jeans until he rips the seam open to expose the wound. He answers without looking up. “You mean because I'm dressed? I didn't. I just got back from the hospital.” His full attention is on the wound, turning my leg this way and that until he seems satisfied about something. Then he sits back on his heels and faces me. “The arrow went clean through."
I feel the hair stir on the back of my neck. I raise myself onto my elbows. “How did you know it was an arrow?"
He gives me another of those slow-student looks. “I've been in this business for two hundred years, give or take. I know what an arrow wound looks like. You shouldn't have pulled it out, you know. It would have been a lot less painful if you'd left it for me to remove."
"Oh,” I sink back into the cushions. “Right. And how do I explain an arrow sticking out of my leg to the border guards? Ran into a little trouble with the natives?"
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