Retribution (13 page)
The vampire in me is ready, responding with a snarl and a sharp intake of breath. I hold her, one hand at her neck, one around her waist. She pushes back against me, rubbing her body against mine. I feel her shudder, feel her excitement through my clothes.
I nuzzle her neck, find her pulse point with my tongue. All my senses throb with anticipation. When I open her neck and begin to drink, she moans. She takes my hand and pushes it down, between her legs, holding it there with her own. I’m lost in my own passion; I don’t fight her. A kaleidoscope of exploding sensations turns my world bloodred with heat and pleasure.
I drink.
It’s all there is in the world. Hunger to be sated. The blood, her blood, warms me, fills me, completes me.
I’m sorry when it’s time to stop.
Reluctantly, though, I drag myself back, withdraw my teeth from her neck, use my tongue to close the wounds.
All the while, she’s writhing against me, moaning, her hands manipulating mine. When my fingers slip inside her, she cries out. She’s hot and wet and feels like silk. Her orgasm builds, powerful, pulsing. I feel it. A new sensation for me. Not entirely unpleasant. I finger her until she comes. I’m no longer reluctant and no longer afraid. It seems the least I can do—give her sex.
Didn’t she just give me life?
CHAPTER 21
W
HEN I WAS HUMAN, I’D FALL ASLEEP AFTER SEX. It’s what Edie does now. She has a half smile on her face, a look of contentment. I cover her with a quilt from the foot of the bed and watch for a moment. The vampire is content; the human Anna wonders what the hell just happened.
HEN I WAS HUMAN, I’D FALL ASLEEP AFTER SEX. It’s what Edie does now. She has a half smile on her face, a look of contentment. I cover her with a quilt from the foot of the bed and watch for a moment. The vampire is content; the human Anna wonders what the hell just happened.
I close the bedroom door behind me.
Ortiz and Brooke are nowhere to be found. The house is quiet. I let myself out.
What a bizarre way to start the morning. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Ortiz the same way again. But the anxiety that had been building with the hunger is gone. I’m clearheaded, refreshed.
Horny.
Too bad Lance is in New York.
Too bad I have a witch to kill.
I call Frey’s cell phone to check in.
Sandra picks up.
Her voice on his phone causes a ripple of alarm. “Where’s Frey?”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s sleeping.”
“And Culebra?”
She sighs. “The same. Any news?”
“I’m heading back to the warehouse now. I’ll get that receptionist to talk if I have to scare the shit out of her to do it.”
After I’ve finished, Sandra waits a beat to say, “Hurry, Anna.”
It’s all there in her voice—concern, uneasiness, fear. What isn’t there is the antipathy she displayed toward me when I showed up two days ago. I ring off without bringing it up. When Burke is dead, when Culebra and Frey are safe, there will be time for us to talk.
It’s not yet seven. Too early to head for the warehouse. I doubt the office staff reports before eight. I still have those two women Williams’ identified as the blood-hungry pair who attacked their dates. The pictures are on the seat beside me. One has an address not far from Ortiz’ house. I’ll head there first.
I’m doing the thing I hate seeing others do, holding the pic up against the steering wheel while I drive so I can read the notes printed on the back. The first woman’s name is Valerie Storm. The before picture shows a heavyset forty-six-year-old with dishwater blond hair. The woman in the after picture looks twenty-six with a good bleach job and glamour-shot makeup.
Maybe that’s Burke’s secret. Diet and a dynamite makeup artist.
Valerie Storm lives on Hilltop Drive. It’s a nice neighborhood. I’m halfway down the block when police cars scream up behind me. Shit. Did Ortiz send these guys after me? Is he so pissed that I ruined his playdate he’s having me arrested for that woman Burke dumped in my bed? I pull over, shoulders tight with aggravation. If he did this—
But the cars don’t stop. They keep going. After a second, I do, too, still looking for Valerie’s address.
I should have simply followed the police cars. We all end up at the same place.
There are three police cars at Valerie’s, one in the driveway, one in the street, one on the front lawn. The cops in the two that passed me are racing toward the front door. I pull up across the street and watch. Neighbors are beginning to venture out to see what all the commotion is about. I join them.
The chatter among the neighbors tells me that the Storms are nice people, that no one can imagine trouble in the family, that if there was trouble, it probably had something to do with Valerie’s remarkable transformation from suburban duckling to bombshell swan.
One of the men makes a comment about the transformation that earns him an elbow in the ribs from another of those suburban ducklings. She must be his wife.
It gets quiet when the coroner’s wagon pulls up. The attendants go inside, followed a minute later by a man in a suit. I recognize him. San Diego’s medical examiner. Either Valerie or someone in her family is dead.
My money is on Valerie.
The second of Burke’s test subjects to turn up dead.
My stomach is queasy with the speculation that I may be responsible. Didn’t Burke say she wanted to play a game with me? See how clever I was? I know she’s capable of murder—she killed an innocent out of spite when Frey and I stopped her demon-raising last Halloween. But why is she killing the very women who are living proof of the effectiveness of her wonder cream? If her plan is to implicate me in their murders, I can’t see how she’ll do it. They have no connection to me. Even with her power, I doubt she could conjure up the kind of evidence necessary to make it look like they did.
After all, it didn’t work last night.
What game is she playing?
I return to my car and flip open my cell. I call Ortiz. His voice mail picks up so I tell him where I am now and where I’m headed next—to El Cajon. To the home of the third of Burke’s test subjects. I ask him to call me when he finds out what happened at the Storm residence.
That’s two of three women connected to Burke to wind up dead. I hope I get to the third in time.
CHAPTER 22
M
ADDIE COLEMAN LIVES ON EMERALD HEIGHTS Road. I’ve never heard of it and it takes my trusty GPS to get me there. It turns out to be a winding street off the end of Magnolia Avenue. It’s a surprisingly nice neighborhood above an old and run-down area with views that stretch out over the El Cajon Valley. Maddie’s is a low-slung ranch house with a tile roof and high chain-link fence that appears to circle a good-sized piece of property. When I stop in front of it, it becomes clear the reason for the fence. The biggest damned German shepherd I’ve ever seen appears out of nowhere and charges the fence before I get the car door open.
ADDIE COLEMAN LIVES ON EMERALD HEIGHTS Road. I’ve never heard of it and it takes my trusty GPS to get me there. It turns out to be a winding street off the end of Magnolia Avenue. It’s a surprisingly nice neighborhood above an old and run-down area with views that stretch out over the El Cajon Valley. Maddie’s is a low-slung ranch house with a tile roof and high chain-link fence that appears to circle a good-sized piece of property. When I stop in front of it, it becomes clear the reason for the fence. The biggest damned German shepherd I’ve ever seen appears out of nowhere and charges the fence before I get the car door open.
I stay put.
I can see the driveway and partway into the backyard. There’s a swing set and slide. The garage door is closed. Except for the incessant barking of that damned dog, it’s quiet.
What to do?
Dogs don’t like me. It has nothing to do with being a vampire. I know this because dogs didn’t like me before I became vampire. I have no doubt I could break the neck of the snarling beast, but that means getting close, and getting close means putting myself in range of those teeth. I may be a kick-ass vampire, but I still have an aversion to pain.
I hunker down. Surely, somebody will come to the door to see why the beast is raising such a racket. While I wait, I take another look at Maddie. In her before photo, she’s standing beside a tall, pimply-faced teenager in a cap and gown. She looks midfifties, plump, mousey. She’s dressed in a flower-print cotton skirt and pale blazer with a handbag on the arm that isn’t clutching the graduate. Her shoes look like the kind nurses stereotypically wear—square-toed, functional, ugly.
The transformation in her after photo is more remarkable than Valerie’s. Again, it’s a glamour shot. Maddie is almost wearing a black, tight, low-cut cocktail dress. It’s slit up the side to reveal long legs and four-inch stilettos. She has a Veronica Lake haircut, long, shiny dark hair that falls over one eye. She’s smiling at the camera with what can only be described as a “come fuck me” expression.
She looks about twenty-six.
Whew.
The dog is still going crazy in the yard. Maybe I should shoot it. Do the neighbors a favor. Except I haven’t seen a neighbor peek out to see what’s going on, either. Where in the hell is everybody?
Just when I decide I’m going to have to tackle the dog after all, a long black limousine whispers up to the gate. The driver honks the horn and the front door opens. A man appears in the doorway, calls the dog inside, disappears for a minute, then returns without the beast.
So, that’s the trick? All I had to do was honk the horn? The man walks down to the gate. He’s dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and dark tie. He walks with shoulders slumped. The lines of his face droop. When he opens the gate, he does it slowly, as if this simple task requires all his energy. When the limo pulls past him, his gaze falls on me. His expression doesn’t change. It reflects neither curiosity nor concern.
The only thing those eyes reflect is pain.
He turns without acknowledging my presence and walks back to the house with the same slow, shuffling tread.
The scene is sickeningly familiar.
I know what he’s feeling. See it in a face drawn in lines of sorrow. Sense it in the heaviness of his spirit. Recognize the unbearable sadness that weighs him down and makes the pain of loss the only sensation he’s capable of experiencing.
I know it because I’ve been through it all myself. When my brother died.
I don’t wait to see anything else. I don’t have to. Maddie is dead and this is the beginning of her funeral procession.
What the hell is Burke doing?
This time I put a call into Williams.
He picks up on the second ring.
“What’d you find out from the receptionist?” he asks in way of greeting.
“Haven’t been there yet,” I reply. I tell him what I did find. Then I say, “Wouldn’t three dead bodies elevate this in a judge’s eye from coincidence to probable cause?”
“You don’t know yet if Storm or Coleman are dead.”
“Come on. What are the odds they aren’t?”
There’s a moment of silence. “I’ll do some checking. In the meantime, maybe you’d better track that receptionist down.”
We ring off and I put the Jag in drive and head back for the freeway—just in time for Tuesday morning commuter traffic.
Shit.
I’m stuck in stop-and-go traffic and I can’t get the picture of that man as he came down the driveway out of my head.
Rage burns like acid. Burke is behind this. Why? And what’s the connection between what she’s doing to these women and that miraculous antiaging cream she’s about to launch on the world?
Launch on the world.
Jesus.
I want to bang my forehead against the steering wheel. What an idiot I am.
There is one other person I can go to for answers. I don’t want to do it. But I have to.
Gloria. Spokesmodel for Eternal Youth. She’s certainly one person I know I can shake information out of.
Only idly do I wonder—has she used the stuff?
CHAPTER 23
W
HEN GLORIA IS IN TOWN, SHE STAYS IN A PENTHOUSE at the Four Seasons. The clerk who takes my call refuses to put it through. His tone implies that the queen does not like to be disturbed.
HEN GLORIA IS IN TOWN, SHE STAYS IN A PENTHOUSE at the Four Seasons. The clerk who takes my call refuses to put it through. His tone implies that the queen does not like to be disturbed.
I swallow back the impulse to say something rude and put a hopeful smile in my voice when I reply, “Look. I understand. If you’ve been around at all, you’ll remember a few months ago Gloria got in trouble with the law. My name is Anna Strong. I helped her get out of that trouble. If you just call up to her room and ask, I’m sure she’ll take the call.”
And if she doesn’t, I’ll come over there, climb the fucking building and yank Gloria by the short hairs until she begs me to stop.
The clerk finally agrees to try. He puts me on hold. I’m on hold two minutes. I know because I’m timing it, plotting how to exact revenge if the bitch refuses my call.
The Kenny G elevator music I’m forced to endure during this interminable hold cycle suddenly cuts off to be replaced by a ring.
Thank you.
The phone is picked up.
“Hello?”
It’s a man’s voice. Or rather a male voice—a sleepy, sexy, incredibly young-sounding male voice.
“This is Anna Strong. I need to speak with Gloria.”
No reponse.
“Hello? I’m calling for Gloria. Is she there?”
This time, the voice purrs, “Ms. Estrella is still asleep. I’m not sure I should disturb her. If you tell me the nature of your call . . .”
I get it now. Gloria is directing the conversation from somewhere in the background. From the sound of this guy’s voice, they’re most likely in bed.
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