Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  Williams’ smile is derisive, mocking, as he reads my reaction. He knows you, Anna. You’d walk in, take one look at me and walk back out. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sandra, but obviously he used that to get you here. What did he say? Don’t come? And what did you do? You came anyway. Right on schedule. Right after he asked you to stay away. Jesus, Anna, you are so fucking predictable.

  Predictable? If I were so predictable, I’d give in to the anger scorching through the tissue of my control and have Williams’ head through the wall. Culebra tricked me. He sent me here to see Williams and made sure he was elsewhere when I found out so I couldn’t take it out on him. Did he really leave town? Or is he hiding out somewhere, waiting for me to go back to San Diego?

  I don’t know whether to feel angry or hurt. Instead, I suck in a breath and let it out slowly before saying, “What is so fucking important? Oh yeah. I forgot. You came with a warning. Deliver it and get out.”

  A flash of dark rage sparks the depths of his eyes. For an instant, I read that he doesn’t want to tell me—that he would love to let me become the next victim.

  Victim? Of what?

  His anger still seethes, fighting to surface. He looks down and away, swallowing back his emotions, regaining control. When he looks at me again, his eyes are flat, hard, expressionless.

  He says, “Someone is killing vampires.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THIS IS THE BIG NEWS? I BARELY CONTAIN THE snicker.

  “Someone has been killing vampires since the dawn of recorded history. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  My sarcasm is not well received. Williams has the look of a spoiled kid ready to take his ball and go home. At the same time, I pick up on the vibe that he’s not being over-dramatic in his concern.

  “Okay, okay. Tell me. What is this about?”

  Williams’ thoughts darken. Vampire corpses are showing up drained of blood. There have been six in the last week alone.

  It’s not easy to kill a vampire.

  The Revengers? I ask. They’re a group of human vampire slayers.

  He shakes his head. No. The Revengers don’t leave corpses. They don’t want to attract attention to themselves any more than we do. This is something else—something different. These corpses are left in plain sight, for the human community to find.

  By the human community, I know Williams is referring to the police. I also know Williams was recently forced to resign as chief of police—a position he held for many years until a case I was involved in turned public opinion against him.

  It wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t his.

  He follows my train of thought. It diffuses some of his anger and when he comments, it’s surprisingly without bitterness. “It was time I resigned. The position was too high profile. It’s not the first time I’ve found myself in this situation. It won’t be the last.”

  Vampires, like humans, are creatures of habit. Williams has been in law enforcement of one kind or another for two hundred years. He’ll undoubtedly follow that same path when it comes time for him to move on from San Diego.

  “You know how the police are handling it?” I ask.

  Old habits are hard to break. He goes into cop mode to answer.

  “So far, the vamps have all been young females newly turned. Exsanguination is the cause of death. A small wound at the jugular made by a weapon of indeterminate origin. The bodies have been found in different jurisdic tions throughout the county. The only reason we know they are vampires at all is because our contact in the coroner’s office recognizes what the total absence of food in a digestive tract means.”

  He doesn’t expound on any of these things, but I understand. Especially that the vamps are all newly turned. If a vamp is destroyed by stake or fire, he leaves nothing behind but ash. If he is killed any other way, by draining, for instance, his body reverts to its human age and an autopsy would reveal nothing but intact human organs. They no longer function, which would not be obvious, but neither do they shrivel or disappear. A newly turned vampire would appear normal.

  “I haven’t seen anything in the newspapers about bodies turning up.”

  “Not yet,” Williams replies. “The police are playing it quiet. So far, the victims all seem to have been young people who have fallen off the radar. No missing reports filed, no families have come forward to claim the bodies. Whoever is doing it is choosing his victims carefully. That will change the first time he fucks up and a victim turns up who has been reported missing.”

  Williams stands up. “I’ve done what I came here to do,” he says. The civility is gone from his tone. “I thought you should know what’s been happening. You may be in danger. You are slightly older than the others, but you fit the profile. You are newly turned and you have a penchant for pissing people off.”

  “You’re telling me to watch my back?”

  “I know your partner is out of town and your family is gone. I’d like to think you’ll live long enough to get over your childish refusal to integrate into your real community. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Frankly, I don’t care one way or the other.” But there are others who do. The thought is squelched the instant it forms in his head.

  He watches to see if I caught it. I did. Same tune, different song. He puts his hand on the doorknob and twists. “You know where to find me.”

  He walks out and I’m right on his heels. I’ll think about what he’s told me later. Right now, it’s one pain in the butt down, one to go. Time to find out what put the bug up Sandra’s ass.

  There’s a human behind the bar—a guy I’ve seen here before. One of Culebra’s gofers.

  “Where’s Sandra?”

  He shrugs. “Errands. She told me to tell you not to wait. She didn’t know when she’d be back.”

  Terrific.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE ONE BRIGHT SPOT IN A SHITTY DAY IS THAT Lance is at the cottage when I get home.

  He senses my mood the minute I walk in the door.

  “So what’s up? Trouble with Culebra?”

  He’s sitting on the couch, a magazine open on his lap. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans, no shirt, no shoes, and must have just come out of the shower because he smells of my soap and shampoo. Only Lance could make the citrus of my favorite Chanel fragrance, Chance, smell masculine and sexy.

  I sit down next to him. “You smell good.”

  He drapes an arm over my shoulder. “And you smell like cigarette smoke and stale beer. You’ve been in a bar?”

  Two in fact. An image of that girl in TJ and her dead eyes makes me squeeze my own shut in exasperation.

  He reads my reaction and the reason behind it. “Must have been hard, seeing that girl. I’m surprised Culebra would have chosen a spot like that to meet you. Why not Beso de la Muerte?”

  I let him pick the story out of my head. “He set you up?” he asks in surprise. “With a story about Sandra?” Lance and I had just met when Sandra arrived in town the first time. He’s heard the whole story. He’s one of the reasons I made it through that period without going crazy.

  “What did she say?”

  “Never got the chance to talk to her. Williams took over.”

  I replay the episode for him through the lens of my aggravation. He listens with quiet concentration until I get to the part about Lance not being bright enough or strong enough to hold my interest.

  “That guy is a jerk,” he says. Then he starts to laugh. “Did you really clock him?”

  I pantomime a right hook to the jaw.

  “Wish I could have been there to see it.” He takes a sip of his wine, tilts his head, studies me. “I think he’s jealous.”

  “What?”

  “I think he has the hots for you.”

  “He hates me,” I reply with a snort. “And he’s married.”

  Lance’s turn to snort. “He’s a male, isn’t he? He’s got a dick. Why else would he disrespect a guy he doesn’t know?”

  He tightens his arm around
my shoulders. “What do you think about the rest of the story? The vampires turning up drained?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know why he came to me with it. I don’t know what he expects me to do.”

  Lance interprets my chagrin. “Do you think he wants you to come back to the fold? Help him track whoever or whatever is doing this?”

  I snuggle against his chest. “If he thinks I’d work with him after all we’ve been through, he’s delusional. He’s got the Watchers to figure it out.” I let my hand slide to the bulge between his legs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. There must be something more pleasant for us to do.”

  He laughs and gives me a nudge. “Let’s get you into the shower. Wash away the bar stink first. Then we’ll see what comes up.”

  He doesn’t have to ask twice.

  SOMEBODY SAID THE SEXIEST ORGAN IN THE BODY IS the brain. Must have been a vamp. It isn’t possible to explain how much of a turn-on it is to be able to feel your partner’s desire and react to it without relying on words. Lance and I don’t have to tell each other what we want. We feel it. We anticipate it.

  The air around us becomes charged. First in the shower, then after, again, in bed, the shock of him runs through me like a current. I welcome him into my body, into my head, and it’s more than sharing a moment of physical need. It’s allowing him into my soul.

  It’s the second bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.

  ONCE AGAIN, LANCE IS GONE WITH THE FIRST LIGHT of day. This time he’s leaving for New York. Abercrombie & Fitch tagged him for their new winter catalog and the shoot will last a week.

  I start to miss him before the door snicks closed.

  With his departure, exasperation comes flooding back. Exasperation that Culebra could pull such a dirty trick. Exasperation that Sandra wouldn’t even talk to me. Exasperation that Williams still thinks he can jerk me around.

  I look around for a distraction.

  The Sunday paper is spread out on the coffee table. I never got the chance to go through it yesterday. I have a mug of coffee in my hand so I settle my butt on the couch. Lance’s lingering scent is still in the air and that’s enough of a distraction in itself that I’m only paying half attention as I leaf through the pages when an article in the business section catches my eye.

  The article is about a local cosmetics firm about to make a big splash. But it’s not the product that catches my eye, it’s the picture of David’s ex, Gloria Estrella, standing beside the president of the firm, a woman named Simone Tremaine. Gloria is to be the spokesmodel for the new product Eternal Youth, a revolutionary antiaging cream (according to the article), and the launch party is in two weeks at Gloria’s restaurant.

  It makes me smile. How appropriate for the queen of vanity to be involved in something like antiaging. She’s probably already ordered a lifetime supply.

  I take a closer look at the picture. Gloria looks good. Evidently, she’s recovered from her brush with the law. The last time I saw her she had been charged with the murder of her business partner, Rory O’Sullivan. My dad and I helped to get those charges dropped by pointing the police in a different direction. O’Sullivan sold the rights to a formula for an AIDS cure right out from under the noses of his board of directors. Bad move. One director in particular took exception to being cut out of a billion-dollar deal. He hadn’t read the fine print in his contract. O’Sullivan owned the rights to the formula and when a foreign government offered him a huge amount of money, he took the quick and easy way out. Unfortunately, being greedy had a price. His life.

  So far, I haven’t received a thank-you note from Gloria. But to be honest, she has lived up to part of the bargain. I agreed to investigate if she’d agree to cut David loose.

  Given that David is right this minute vacationing on Paradise Island with a hot real-estate developer he met while looking for investment property, I’d say it’s worked out pretty well.

  I’ve finished the paper and my coffee and since it’s a cloudy gray Monday and Lance is gone and I can’t think of anything better to do, I fall back on the last thing I ever want to do—cleaning and laundry.

  The vacuum is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, my laundry is divided into whites and colors and Creedence is blasting on the CD player when my cell phone rings.

  I dive for the remote to mute CCR and flip open the phone.

  This time I recognize the number—from yesterday.

  “Culebra.” Coldness creeps into my voice, anger at him for yesterday bubbling to the surface. “That was a fast trip.”

  “No. It’s Sandra.”

  Sandra? I draw a quick, sharp breath. “What are you doing calling from Culebra’s cell phone? Is he back?”

  There’s the briefest hesitation before she replies, “Yes. You need to get down here, Anna. Culebra is ill. I think he’s dying.”

  CHAPTER 9

  IN ONE HOUR, I’M PARKED IN FRONT OF THE BAR. Everything I did to get here—getting dressed, getting in the car, racing over—was done in a haze. I kept hearing the sound of Sandra’s voice when she said Culebra was dying.

  All the rancor I felt yesterday, all the anger and disap pointment is forgotten.

  Culebra can’t be dying.

  The street is empty. As soon as my feet touch the ground, I’m hit with a curious flutter of energy. Not positive. Not negative. Stinging my skin like pinpricks of electricity.

  It gets stronger when I step inside the bar. There’s a sound now, too, a hum. It settles in the middle of my chest and makes my heart race. I press my hand to my chest, fighting the urge to turn and flee.

  Where is everyone?

  There’s no one behind the bar. It’s littered with empty glasses and a few beer bottles. Most half full, scattered randomly, as if discarded in a hurry.

  No customers. No Sandra.

  I call her name.

  No answer.

  I go all the way to the back door—open all the feeding room doors, and still, I find no one.

  Uneasiness slithers up my spine.

  Could they be in the caves?

  There’s a path that leads from the bar to an outcropping of rock about half a mile away. An easy run. I’ve been here before and know what to expect. The rock hides the entrance to a warren of tunnels—living quarters for the inhabitants of Beso de la Muerte.

  I peer inside. The interior is lit with a string of electric lamps. I listen. I don’t hear or sense anyone but the inexplicable hum I first heard in the bar. I hug the wall, following it until there’s a fork, about a quarter of a mile in. The whine is louder and the feeling of static on my skin is stronger. Pressure in my chest builds.

  “Sandra?” I call again, panic very close.

  This time, I hear a scuffling of feet. A man appears. I recognize him. He took care of David when I brought him here after Avery’s attack. He’s an American—a doctor whose license was stripped in the States—human, blond, thin. Thinner than the last time I saw him. He was a junkie then and from the looks of him, is a junkie still.

  But he helped David. I hold out my hand. “I’m Anna.”

  “I remember.” He shakes my hand and gestures for me to follow him. “Culebra is back here.”

  I follow him deeper into the cave. I don’t detect any other presence. Since there are usually human and supernatural criminals of one type or another granted sanctuary by Culebra, it’s unusual.

  “Are we alone?”

  “Sandra sent everyone away. She thought it would be safer.”

  He says it over his shoulder, still walking back into the bowels of the cave. He stops finally and gestures me inside. Into a ward set up like a MASH unit with stainless-steel gurneys and IV racks. There’s a cabinet along the back wall, a refrigerator and a makeshift lab counter with a centrifuge and a couple of beakers. No monitors. No fancy equipment.

  Culebra is laid out on one of the gurneys. He is pale, barely breathing. When I try to get into his head, to read what happened to him
, I get nothing but faint static, like a radio signal too far from its transmitter.

  What is coming through is a stronger vibration, a louder hum emanating from his body and centering in my own chest. My heart thumps with disturbing irregularity against my ribs. My hand presses against my sternum as if to ease the pounding, but there’s no pain.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you?”

  The voice at my shoulder makes me jump. Sandra has joined us.

  “Do you?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “No. But Culebra complained about pressure in his chest before he collapsed.”

  I look up at the doctor. “Did he have a heart attack?” Am I about to have one?

  A shrug. “I don’t think so. His blood tests don’t indicate heart problems. Frankly, the tests I performed don’t indicate anything wrong at all.”

  I glance back at the granite slab that serves as a lab bench. Can’t imagine any tests performed here would be inclusive or extensive enough to rule out much of anything. “Should we take him to a hospital?”

  Sandra answers before the doctor. “No hospitals. Culebra was very clear about it. Before he lost consciousness he said to tell you that, Anna.”

  I turn back toward Culebra, lying pale and still on the cot. “He said he was catching a plane. How did he get back here?”

  Sandra places her hand on the edge of his cot. “I found him this morning when I came to open the bar. He was lying outside on the street. I don’t know how he got there. He couldn’t tell me.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Only a name,” Sandra answers. “Belinda Burke.”

  Only a name. My insides recoil.

  He wasn’t lying about going away. He was lying about what he was going to do. He was going after Belinda Burke, a powerful witch who killed an innocent in retaliation for our stopping one of her rituals. He must have located her. If he found her, why didn’t he tell me? We’d agreed to go after her together. I have my own powerful reasons for exacting revenge. Culebra knew that.