Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  We step outside under an apocalyptic sky. Smoke and ash turn day into evening. We cling to each other as we make our way to the shelter of some trees at the edge of the parking lot.

  Only when we are away from the building does one of the women grasp my arm.

  “There is another,” she says.

  I look back toward the building. Smoke is thicker now, pouring out the entrance to the underground torture chamber. The draft caused by my breaking in draws the flames downward.

  “Another?”

  “Brought in just before the explosion. Unconscious.”

  “I don’t think I can go back.”

  She nods sadly. “I doubt he’ll know what happens.”

  My heart jumps. “He?”

  “A young male vampire. In a policeman’s uniform.”

  Time stops. I dig my cell phone out of my pocket, hit speed dial, and thrust it at her. “When a man named Williams answers, tell him where we are and what happened. Tell him Ortiz is here at Burke’s warehouse.”

  I don’t wait for a response or to see if Williams picks up. I’m running full speed back to the warehouse.

  The smoke can’t hurt Ortiz, the heat, either.

  But the flames licking at the back of the chamber can.

  “Ortiz!” I’m screaming it at the top of my lungs. He’s got to hear me, got to let me know where he is.

  There’s no response—no verbal or mental path for me to follow.

  He must still be unconscious. I push back beyond the two dead vampires still hanging like broken dolls from the ceiling. I didn’t look any farther into the chamber than this before. I didn’t think I needed to.

  Vampires don’t breathe. The smoke and heat are an annoyance, they blur my vision, dull my senses. I have to keep wiping my streaming eyes, focusing on the dark beyond the corpses.

  Where could he be?

  There’s a flash and a roar. The draft from the broken loading bay door finally succeeds in drawing the flame to its source. Fire races down the back stairs and across the floor as if following an invisible trail.

  I can’t stay here much longer.

  “Ortiz, where are you?” I scream it until my throat is raw.

  Over and over. Then, I stop, listen.

  Tell me where you are. Please.

  The only sound that fills my ears is the crackle of the flame. The only thing I see is the hell of fire bearing down.

  Then—

  A muffled cry.

  Tell me where you are. I scream it again like a crazy person.

  There’s no answer. In the corner, near the stairs, a figure suddenly rises.

  Ortiz pulls himself up, shaking his head, confused, immobile. He looks across the room.

  Here, I’m yelling. Over here.

  I take a step toward him but there’s a wall of flame between us. I can’t jump it and I can’t go through it.

  Ortiz—can you find a way around?

  He is looking right at me now. He sees me. He understands.

  His eyes sweep the room. He’s surrounded by flame.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Ortiz’ eyes seek mine. There’s a rush of conflicting emotion—fear, regret, acceptance. He holds up a hand. Be sure Brooke is all right. Tell her I loved her.

  No. You can’t give up. Look around.

  His gaze remains on me. Help Williams. He’ll need you now.

  No. Find a way out. Look.

  But as I speak the words, the flames erupt around him in a tornado of wind and noise. In one moment, he’s there, watching me, smiling. In the next, his body bursts into flame. It ignites in a single, sparkling burst and is suspended a moment in the air, like an exploding star.

  I don’t want to watch.

  I can’t look away.

  Ortiz dissolves into flickering embers and pinpricks of white light that rain down like the tears of an avenging angel.

  And Ortiz is gone.

  CHAPTER 28

  “NO—”I’M STILL YELLING EVEN THOUGH IT’S USELESS. Ortiz is gone.

  I’m powerless to move. I can’t drag my eyes off the spot where a moment ago, Ortiz stood looking at me. All that’s left is a wisp of vapor and a quick, bright discharge of light. Like a dying sparkler.

  No.

  Anna, are you in there?

  A voice from outside. A voice that keeps calling my name. Urgently. Unrelentingly.

  Anna, where are you?

  It breaks through the miasma of my despair and brings me back.

  The heat on my skin, the roar of the flames, the acrid smell of—what? My shoes. I look down and realize what I’m smelling is the soles of my shoes. If I don’t get out, I’ll be joining Ortiz in whatever afterlife awaits the vampire.

  I’m not ready to find out what that is.

  The flames have traveled on a straight path from the stairs to the gaping hole I tore in the bay.

  Have I waited too long?

  Panic raises bile in my throat.

  A sound.

  To the left.

  Someone is pounding against the metal of the adjoining bay. Doing what I did just a little while ago to get inside this one.

  I race over. Use my fists to pound, too, until the metal gives way. There’s no seam here, I gouge into the metal with my fingers, using nails and finally teeth to tear a hole. With my hands, I yank at the hole, enlarge it, make it big enough to gain purchase with my hands. At last, I can rip back the steel fabric. It’s not easy. Blood from lacerated palms makes my grip slip. I ignore it and the pain. Keep working until strong hands grab mine and pull me outside.

  The hands drag me away from the building, across the parking lot.

  I don’t realize my eyes are squeezed shut until they open and I’m staring up at sky.

  A face peers down.

  Are you all right?

  My savior is a woman with a kindly middle-aged face.

  I attempt to sit up. When my palms press against the asphalt, pain in lightning sharp daggers races up my arms. I look down to see great jagged cuts like macabre lifelines scoring the flesh. My nails are torn to the quick.

  My back hurts from being dragged, my left arm throbs, my eyes still stream from the smoke.

  I glance back at the building, fully engulfed, smoke blocks the sun, staining the sky like angry storm clouds.

  I see Ortiz—standing in front of me one moment, gone the next. His face, calm, accepting, will haunt me for a long time.

  The cool night air on my skin, the smell of asphalt and burned rubber, the roar of the flames.

  I’m alive.

  Suddenly, I’ve never felt better.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE WOMAN WHO DRAGGED ME OUT IS KNEELING beside me, her face level with mine. She has long hair, drawn back from her face, light brown dusted with gray. Her eyes are deep blue and sparkle with an inner radiance. She projects great kindness.

  She’s a vampire.

  I’ve never met a vampire before who wasn’t young—or at least young-looking.

  Before I can block that thought, she laughs.

  Not all of us are made at a young age. I was, as you see, in my fifties. In reality, not a bad age to become vampire. There’s a certain wisdom that comes with middle age.

  Wisdom is not something Anna knows much about.

  Williams’ voice interjects itself in our conversation. He walks up from behind and when I turn, I see several men helping the injured vampires. They’re covering them with blankets and leading them to vans parked in a semicircle in the back of the parking lot. They’re all human.

  You were quick, I say. How did you arrange it?

  There is a safe house nearby. I called, they mobilized.

  Will the women be all right?

  Williams nods. The humans will see to their needs. We can’t remove the collars until they’re stronger.

  I shake my head, shuddering. What are those things? I’ve never seen anything like it. Just the thought of how I found them makes me tremble. She was bleeding
them.

  I’ve seen it before, Williams replies. In pictures. The collars were used by us, by ancient vampires, to bleed humans. Someone has a long memory and a great hate to use them now against us.

  Not someone. Belinda Burke. The witch.

  Williams is looking around. You said Ortiz was here. Where is he?

  His question unleashes a rush of alarm. He doesn’t know. I don’t know how to tell him.

  I force myself to my feet, heart hammering, head swimming in anxiety.

  Williams feels it. He takes a step closer. “Where is Ortiz?”

  The woman with us senses my agitation. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you should go with the others. You need to rest.”

  I push her gently away. “No. You go see to them. I have to speak with Williams.”

  She looks reluctant to leave us.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “We’ll be all right.”

  She moves off, looking back once, then takes the elbow of a young female who is stumbling toward the van. I watch as they walk away.

  “Ortiz is gone.”

  I don’t know how else to say it.

  Williams expression stills, freezes into blankness.

  “Gone? You mean he’s left already?”

  I shake my head. “He was inside.”

  Awareness blooms in Williams’ eyes. A muscle quivers at the corner of his jaw. His thoughts draw inward, shutting me out.

  Then I feel it. Feel the rage.

  It hits with the intensity of a blast furnace.

  I accept it. I understand it.

  He and Ortiz were close. I expect Williams to lash out and since I’m the likely target, I brace myself.

  Williams doesn’t look at me. He turns away, head bowed. I feel his conflicted emotions as powerfully as if they were my own. Misery, like physical pain—a knife twisting and turning inside. The first swell of anger giving way to raw grief, a sense of deep loss, a terrible bitterness.

  I was prepared for him to strike out but he’s turned it inward. Somehow, that makes it worse. If he screamed or attacked me or slammed his fist into a wall, I’d know how to react. This way he’s unreachable. There’s nothing I can do or say. His desolation and despair wrap him in a cocoon of anguish.

  I reach out a hand but stop short of touching him. “I’m sorry.”

  He barks a short, desperate laugh. “Sorry? You could have saved him.”

  “I couldn’t. The flames were everywhere. I didn’t know he was inside until it was too late.”

  His expression shifts, turns his eyes cold, his mouth into a thin, hard line. “You are such an ignorant bitch. You don’t know your power. You could have saved him. If you had taken one minute from your precious, insignificant human life to learn, Ortiz would be alive.”

  His anger hits me like a punch to the stomach. I take a step away from him. “What are you talking about?”

  He flings his hand in the direction of the warehouse. “Flames can’t hurt you. Nothing can hurt you. You are immortal. Truly immortal. You are the one.”

  The words lash at me. His face is contorted, twisted in anger. He comes closer. “You are a terrible disappointment to me, Anna Strong.” A whisper, deadly, intense. “It’s the last time you will fail me. I swear by Ortiz, I will make you pay.”

  His eyes burn with hatred. I can’t move, can’t look away, don’t know how to respond. I don’t understand. Questions flood my mind, but Williams has shut me out. His last words hang in the air between us. He blames me for Ortiz’ death. I have no idea why.

  “We have to leave.”

  A female voice. I turn to see who is speaking, but even the effort of this simple physical movement engulfs me in tides of weariness and despair. I feel drained. Hollow. Lifeless.

  When I look up, I see Williams watching. Smiling.

  I realize he is doing it—somehow he is not only in my head, but controlling my physical responses. I feel weighted down, sluggish, incapable of forming a coherent thought or breaking the bond that holds me.

  Why is he doing this?

  Because I can.

  Simple. Without pretense. Because he can.

  The other voice comes again. “The fire trucks. We have to leave before they get here.”

  I focus on that voice, center my thoughts on it, muster all my strength. I could not break Burke’s hold on me, I’ll be damned if I let Williams have that same kind of power.

  Williams feels my resolve. He tries to fight it, but I won’t let him. I turn his anger back on him. The channel between us breaks with an almost physical release of energy. When it does, my head clears, my body is free.

  Williams jerks back. He tries to reestablish his hold.

  This time, I’m in control. I grab hold of his mind in a grip as tight as the one he used on me. I twist the psychic connection until I feel him surrender to my will. I understand your grief. You were close to Ortiz.

  Close? You have no idea. His fury blazes forth. But you will understand. I will make you understand.

  My arm is throbbing, the wounds on my hands burn from being clutched into fists. Too much has happened today and in the past. I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. I lean toward Williams.

  You have manipulated me for the last time. We will see this through. I need your resources to help Culebra. But then, you will answer my questions and it will be done between us.

  He looks at me with dispassionate indifference. You’ve said the same thing a dozen times. It will be done when I say it is done.

  I don’t fight. I release him. I have said it before. This time is different. I’m sick of the game. Culebra comes first. When he’s safe, when Burke is dead, when I get from Williams what I need to understand what I am, then it will be done.

  In the distance, sirens blare. The vans are pulling out of the parking lot. Only one remains. The woman takes Williams’ arm and pulls him over to it.

  I’m left alone. I run up the hill to my car. The sirens are louder, and when I look back, I see the flashing lights approach. The last van pulls away seconds before screaming fire trucks make the turn into the warehouse parking lot. Smoke and flame pour out of ruined windows and doors. The roof collapses with a tremendous roar. Flames leap to the sky like a bird from a cage.

  What will the firemen find in the ruined building? Ortiz’ badge? His gun? Will anything survive?

  I hope so. He deserves to be remembered as a cop.

  More cars appear on the frontage road. Curiosity seekers, I imagine, attracted by the smoke and sirens. For the first time, I give a thought to what I must look like. Wearily, I glance down at torn jeans, bloody hands and smoke-stained skin. I’d better get out of here before someone notices.

  CHAPTER 30

  I’M BONE WEARY.

  Scalding hot water cascades over me, soap and shampoo wash away the smell and soot of the fire. But the image remains.

  Ortiz.

  His face before he was consumed. His face as we spoke in my kitchen last night.

  Barely twelve hours ago. Now he’s gone.

  I get out of the shower and slip into clean clothes. The cuts on my hands have already closed, the pain in my left arm has receded to a dull ache. My body hums with healing energy.

  I wish my mind were so easily healed. Could I have saved Ortiz?

  I refuse to believe it. Williams is playing games with me. If I had the abilities he says I do, I’d know it.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Everything I had on this morning I bag for the trash. Even if I could get rid of the bloodstains the smell would remain. And the memories.

  In the bedroom, my glance falls on the bed. It’s still stripped, I haven’t had a chance to remake it after the cops took the bedclothes. I want nothing more than to lie down on the bare mattress, close my eyes. It’s been two days since I’ve had any sleep.

  Another image chases the thought of sleep out of my head.

  Culebra—near death.

  When I call Frey, he picks up. Nothing has cha
nged. Culebra’s spirit is being kept alive by Frey’s efforts, his body by an intravenous feeding tube. He has not regained consciousness.

  What has changed is the sound of Frey’s voice. It betrays the burden of working such potent magic. He sounds like a palsied old man, his voice slow in cadence, tremulous.

  He asks only that I find Burke, finish it.

  I ring off with a promise. I hope I’ve succeeded at hiding what I’m feeling—a sense of futility.

  So far, nothing I’ve done to save Culebra has worked.

  Before I do anything else, though, I need to see Brooke—give her Ortiz’ last message. Maybe if I’d told Williams’ that his last thoughts had been with him, it would have eased the situation at the warehouse.

  It’s too late now for what-if.

  Besides, what happened between Williams and me was a long time coming.

  WILLIAMS’ CAR IS PARKED IN FRONT OF ORTIZ’ HOUSE when I pull up.

  I should have known he’d be here.

  Still, it doesn’t shake my resolve to see Brooke. I have a message for her and it needs to be delivered in person.

  When I ring the doorbell, Williams answers it.

  I prepare myself for a psychic attack. He does nothing but hold open the door and stand aside, an invitation to come in. No challenge. No threat. When I probe, he is not questioning my presence. His mind reflects only sadness.

  Brooke looks up when I enter the dining room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed. If Williams told her it was my fault Ortiz was dead, her expression doesn’t suggest it. All I see on her young face is regret.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Her lower lip quivers. “I was mad at him,” she says. “I let him leave without telling him that I loved him. Now, he won’t know.”

  “He knew. He gave me a message for you.”

  She looks up. Tears well again, but there’s also a spark of anticipation and hope. “A message?”