It’s all she’s ever known, Anna. She lives in a house, a real house, and provides food for her family. She has a chance to go to school . . .
God. I don’t bother to dignify that with anything other than a snort. Don’t bullshit me, Culebra. She’s not ever going to school.
I shrug out of my jacket and cast a glance around the café. While it is much cleaner and brighter than the bar, it does nothing to improve my mood. I slouch down on the bench.
“I hate it here. Why aren’t we in Beso de la Muerte?”
Culebra’s expression shifts to a look strange for him. Excited. Secretive.
“What’s going on?”
He leans toward me across the table. “I’m going away for a while.”
“Going away? Where?”
“I can’t tell you. Not now.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I can’t tell you that, either.”
He says it almost gleefully. Strange behavior for a shape-shifter whose expression normally spans the gamut from subdued to restrained.
So, I repeat, more forcefully this time, “What’s going on?”
He fidgets, not meeting my eyes, sending off a gust of impatience. “I just need to get away for a while. I wanted to tell you personally.”
“So why not tell me this on the phone or at Beso? Why drag me to this dump? There’s got to be more.”
He folds his hands and leans toward me again. “Sandra is going to be watching the bar for me.”
“Sandra?” I sit up straight. “She’s back?”
The last time I saw Sandra was four months ago, right after she won her battle against Avery. Avery, my Avery, the one I fought and staked only to find out he hadn’t died after all. He used powerful black magic to take over Sandra’s body and will. In a fight that almost killed her, Sandra accomplished what I had not. She sent Avery to hell, for real this time.
“She told me she would never come back.”
“She came because I asked her.”
“Why did you ask her?”
“I needed someone to watch the bar.”
My stomach is contracting into a barbed-wire ball of aggravation. This is like talking to a three-year-old. “Sandra turned down my offer to take over Avery’s estate. She said she was returning to her home to be with her own kind. Her pack. Now, suddenly, she’s here tending bar? You couldn’t think of anyone else? What about all your human employees? What about me?” It comes out a petulant howl of protest.
Culebra is in my head. I don’t care. I want him there. I want him to know that I’m more than a little upset that he didn’t think I would have done him this favor. Instead, he called on a stranger.
I’m sorry, Anna. You have your own business to run. I didn’t think you’d have time—
How long are you going to be gone?
I’m not sure. Two weeks, maybe.
I start to slide out of the booth. “Have a good time.”
“Anna, wait.”
He holds out a hand to stop me.
“Why? Are you going to tell me the reason you brought me to this shit hole?”
“I did.”
“No. You didn’t. You didn’t tell me a fucking thing you couldn’t have told me on the phone.”
He glances to the papers on the seat beside him. There’s a map on top. He shuffles them together so the map is hidden in the middle.
“I didn’t want you to be surprised if you went to Beso de la Muerte and found me gone and Sandra there. That’s all.”
Bullshit.
If that was it, he could have met me in Beso de la Muerte.
He picks that thought out of the ether. “Sandra is uncomfortable with seeing you. She asked if you might stay away until I get back.”
It’s the aha moment I’ve been waiting for. “Sandra doesn’t want to see me? That’s why we’re here?”
He drops his eyes.
“Why would she not want to see me?”
He looks up at me again. “She hasn’t gotten over what happened at Avery’s.”
“Wait a minute. She blames me for that?”
“It’s not rational. I know. She knows. But she lost Tamara. It’s complicated.”
No. It isn’t. I’m staring at Culebra, waiting for him to say something else. Something that makes sense. Something like Tamara was going to kill us both and her death was self-defense.
But he doesn’t. And his mind is closed.
Guess I’ll have to get answers from Sandra.
No. Please, Anna. Honor her wishes. Honor my wishes.
I stare at him. You’re actually asking me to stay away until you get back?
Yes.
He’s not looking at me. I feel agitation, it’s emanating from him like heat from fire. His lined face is creased with worry. It tempers my aggravation. I love Culebra like family. I put a hand over his. Tell me what’s wrong.
He pulls his hand back and smoothes the concern from his face. In its place is a frown of exasperation. What’s wrong is that I’ve asked you to do a simple thing. You fight me as you do anyone who will not cater to your whims. It’s unfair, Anna, and insulting.
The vehemence behind his words stuns me. The rebuke is unfair and insulting. Face hot, I snatch up my jacket and slide to the end of the booth. Hesitate as I wait for him to stop me.
He doesn’t. He makes no move to stop me. He doesn’t look up or even call a good-bye as I walk away.
The kid is still leaning against my car when I cross the road and the music has started up again in the bar. I shove the ten at him. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
I don’t know where I’m going until I’m back behind the wheel of my car and heading out of TJ. Culebra’s eva siveness about the why and where of this trip distresses me. What distresses me even more is the idea that Sandra holds Tamara’s death against me. I have a right to set her straight.
I don’t care if she wants to see me or not. Culebra is off to catch a plane, winging his way to some mysterious destination. How is he going to stop me?
Fuck it. I have nothing better to do today. I’m going to see Sandra.
CHAPTER 5
EVEN TO THE SUPERNATURAL COMMUNITY, BESO de la Muerte is a mystery. It takes me almost as much time to reach it from Tijuana as it does from San Diego, mostly because it’s forty miles of bad desert road. The town is not on any map, and if a mortal happened to ignore the inhospitable surroundings and take the unmarked turn off from the main highway, it would not be long before he realized he had made a mistake and quickly head back.
He would not be able to articulate why he knew he had made a mistake. He would simply know that he had.
With one exception. If he is a mortal coming to Beso de la Muerte to be a host.
Culebra has been the sole proprietor of this ghost town turned supernatural hangout for as long as anyone can remember.
The first time I came here I was tracking down the vamp who turned me. I was hunting him because I thought he had kidnapped my partner, David, and burned down my house. Turns out, I was wrong. Avery had done those things. Just as he had laid the false trail that led me to Beso de la Muerte in the first place.
The one good thing that came from the whole debacle was meeting Culebra. I need human blood to survive. Culebra offers humans with an inclination for adventure the opportunity to make money as well as experience the best sex imaginable while providing that blood. He protects both vampires and their human hosts. Keeps vampires off the street and off the radar of those who would hunt us. No bodies left suspiciously drained of blood to attract unwanted attention.
The system works.
More important, Culebra became my friend.
At least, I thought he had become a friend.
I push the biting sting of his parting remarks from my head. Along with the guilt that I’m doing exactly what he asked me not to. A whiny little voice justifies it. Don’t I have as much right to be in Beso de la Muerte as Sandra?
It’s not yet eleven
o’clock in the morning. Not surprisingly, there are only two cars parked in front of Culebra’s bar when I pull up. Most of the action takes place after dark. The cars are a big Cadillac SUV and a silver Porsche Boxster. I park behind the Cadillac and send out a mental probe.
I detect three vampires and one human.
The human must be Sandra. She’s a werewolf, but werewolves in human form do not give off a supernatural psychic signature. Two of the vampires are bemoaning the fact that they came all the way from L.A. and are starving and there’s no one here to eat. The third vampire is emitting no telepathic signal at all.
I push through the double swinging doors.
The two vamps griping about the lack of service are sitting at a table in the middle of the room. They each have a beer in front of them. They are young, dressed in open-neck polos and jeans. Both are male, both have carefully coiffed hair and both have an L.A. chic look about them. Probably belong to the Boxster. They look up expectantly when I walk in, then wilt in disappointment when they realize I will not be on the menu.
Newly made, I’d guess, judging from the clumsy way they try to shield their thoughts from me.
The third vampire is at the bar. His back is to me but I sense his reaction when he recognizes me. Because he does recognize me. Immediately. His back becomes rigid. His thoughts draw in on themselves like a noose tightening around a neck.
He doesn’t turn around.
Williams.
For an instant, I’m tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. He’s the last person I want to see.
Sandra, however, is a different story. She’s the reason I’m here. If I can ignore Williams’ phone calls, I can ignore him in person, too.
Sandra is arranging glasses against the back of the bar. When she hears the door, she turns and without looking up, says, “Take any table—”
She raises her eyes and the words die in her throat. She still has a glass in her hand. It remains suspended in air for the second it takes her to replace a look of irritation with one of resignation. She sighs and places the glass on the bar. While the words she speaks are, “Hello, Anna,” her attitude says, “Fuck.”
She looks good. She’s tall and slim and has eyes that aren’t quite green and aren’t quite blue, but flash of both. Her dark hair has grown since I last saw her, it skims her shoulders. Her skin is sun-kissed and glowing. She looks healthy. She looks alive.
What she doesn’t look is happy to see me.
“Hello, Sandra.”
I step up to the bar and place both my hands flat on its surface. I know why she’s reacting the way she is. Culebra made that clear. It’s the reason I came.
For the moment, though, the more urgent problem is the vamp to my left. His negativity flares, burning into my subconscious, demanding response.
So much for ignoring him. Without turning, I say, “Hello, Williams.”
The negativity is momentarily suppressed by a flicker of satisfaction. He was waiting for me.
He was waiting for me.
Son of a bitch. Did Culebra set this up?
Sandra’s expression, though, hasn’t wavered. Her reaction seemed real enough.
So what the fuck is going on?
Next moment, all my questions are washed away in the flood of nonverbal communication Williams sends my way.
If you’d answer my calls, your friends wouldn’t have to resort to trickery.
I do answer my friends’ calls. I didn’t—I don’t want to talk to you.
My gut churns in frustration and anger. Williams has played enough dirty tricks on me to bring out the animal instinct for self-preservation. The beast rises close to the surface.
Williams is in my head, probing for any hint of a threat. He quickly relays his own intention to keep this meeting a civil one, and politely inquires whether I can do the same.
The vibes we’re throwing off must be explosive because the two vamps at the table get up and beat it out of the bar.
The roar of the Porsche engine is still rattling the windows along Main Street when Sandra ends our head game. She isn’t privy to what’s going on between us, but her own animal instinct for preservation senses the hostility. She slams a glass on the bar with enough force to shatter it.
“Great,” she says. “They left without paying for their beer. Which one of you big, bad vampires is going to pick up their tab?”
CHAPTER 6
WILLIAMS REACHES FOR HIS WALLET, SLAPS A twenty on the bar.
He turns on the bar stool and looks me over. “You look well,” he says.
Small talk? And out loud? I know he’s doing it for Sandra’s benefit, to diffuse the tension, but the time for bullshit between us is long past. He’s here. If he insists on talking, we will. But what I have to say to him is better said in private.
We have unfinished business.
He eyes flick to Sandra. “Do you mind if we go in back?”
I see the uneasiness in her eyes. I can’t read a werewolf’s mind and vice versa, but I imagine she’s wondering what she’ll tell Culebra if we trash the place.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll play nice.”
If we don’t, and Culebra did set this up, anything that happens is his responsibility.
Sandra looks from me to Williams and back again and finally jerks her thumb in the direction of the back. Her expression says she’d rather risk us destroying the place than be alone with me.
A worm of irritation crawls over my skin. First Culebra with his mysterious vacation bullshit, and now Sandra and her revisionist history. “When I’m done, we’ll talk,” I tell her.
She doesn’t answer.
Williams pays no attention to the friction between Sandra and me. His thoughts reflect bored indifference. He figures I’ve alienated yet another acquaintance as I have him. He shakes his head in our direction and hoists himself from the barstool.
My indignation ratchets up another notch, but I follow him to the back.
Williams picks the first room. It’s a feeding room so there’s a bed and a couple of chairs. He glances around, then shuts the door behind us.
Warren Williams is an old-soul vamp, and the ex-police chief of San Diego. When I first met him, he was a friend of Avery’s, and eventually that led to him becoming an enemy of mine. Time and circumstances altered our relationship from adversary to mentor to meddler. I dislike him intensely. He manipulated the situation that led to my family moving out of the country. I allowed it because I feared what I am might put them in danger, but I haven’t forgiven the manipulation.
This is the first time Williams and I have come face-to-face since I learned that he was behind my parent’s inheritance—a winery in France. Avery’s winery in France.
Williams is watching me, on high alert. He may be bigger than I am and older by about two hundred years, but he’s tasted my wrath before and isn’t letting his guard down.
“You shouldn’t have interfered with my family,” I say.
His expression remains cautious, his thoughts cloaked.
“You had no right.”
A tight smile. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Whose? Yours? You continue to operate under the delusion that you know what’s best for me. For me. It didn’t work before, it’s not working now. It’s never going to work.”
Williams’ cool gray eyes don’t flicker or look away. “That’s only because you continue to operate under the delusion that you can take care of yourself without—”
Whatever he intended to say, he bites it off. “You are changing, Anna. You must feel it. Your power is increasing; your appetites will, too. It’s inevitable.”
“Once again,” I reply, bitterness rising like bile, “you underestimate me. I’m doing just fine on my own. I come here when I need to. I have someone in my life. We’re developing a real relationship.”
“Lance? He’s a model, for Christ’s sake,” Williams blurts, cutting me off. “He’s not strong enough or bright en
ough to hold your attention past the fifteen minutes it takes to make you come. A big cock—”
The punch catches him square on the mouth. It spins him back and around and he trips on the corner of the bed. He wasn’t expecting the attack but a vampire’s reflexes are quick. He recovers his balance, whirls toward me and lunges.
My reflexes are just as quick. I sidestep and he slams into the wall, knocking one of the chairs aside. The plaster crumbles where his fist makes contact.
There’s a yelp from outside. “What are you two doing?” Sandra yells.
Neither of us answers. Williams is angry, his mind a tornado of conflicting emotions he’s unable to conceal. He wants to kill me, but he can’t. He needs my help and it’s eating a hole in his gut. But there’s a promise and a warning jumbled in there, too. A promise that when I’m no longer needed, we’ll do this dance again.
It’s that promise that calms him. His hands are still balled into fists, but his shoulders lose some of their rigidity. He knows I’m aware of his thoughts and he waits for my reaction.
I have none. The feel of my fist connecting with his jaw gave me tremendous satisfaction. I’m not afraid of Williams, I’m not afraid to finish this anytime he wants.
I return his stare. What are you doing here?
I have come to warn you.
He says it like he’s doing me a favor. After what happened a few minutes ago, it makes me laugh.
This is serious, Anna.
It always is. You weren’t surprised when I walked in. You and Culebra set this up?
Williams is massaging his right hand—the one that hit the wall—with his left. I doubt he’s aware he’s doing it, but it gives me a great deal of pleasure to know he’s hurt. When he picks up on that, he drops his hands to his sides.
I asked you if Culebra brought you here?
He kicks one of the chairs away from the wall and drops into it. Culebra doesn’t bring me anywhere. I asked him to arrange a meeting with you. I told him it was important. I told him you wouldn’t return my calls. Yesterday he called me and said to be here this morning. That you’d show up to see Sandra.
Son of a bitch. But why such an elaborate charade? Why not just tell me to meet him here?
Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution Page 3
