Текст книги "The Becoming"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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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 Muertefills 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. Especially 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 musthave been worried. This is quite a reaction. You're actually speakingto 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?"

He ignores my remark and bends his head to my leg. He places his mouth over the torn skin and sucks gently.

"Wow. This is kinky."

He ignores that, too, his tongue tracing the edges of the injury until I feel a tingle that starts deep in my calf muscle and radiates outward. He continues to probe the wound, and the sensation is so pleasurable that I stop fighting it and let my head drop back onto the cushion. He starts singing me a little lullaby in his head—a lullabyof all things—and before I can comment on it, I'm fast asleep.

* * *

The next thing I know, I'm being awakened by a gentle touch on my arm. I drag myself from sleep reluctantly, thinking for a minute that I'm in my own home, in my own bed, and that it's Max nudging me awake.

"No, Anna. It's not Max.” Avery is speaking in a soft voice, smoothing my hair back off my forehead. “Sorry."

I open my eyes and give Avery a rueful smile and struggle into a sitting position. I'm still on the couch, an afghan so soft it must be made of cashmere thrown over me. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Thanks for taking me in last night."

He holds out a cup of coffee. When I take it, he asks, How does your leg feel?

I take a sip of the coffee and hand him back the cup so that I can push the afghan out of the way. When I look down at my calf, I can hardly believe my eyes. There's not even a bruise to mark where the arrow had penetrated.

"Too bad you can't do this with mortal patients. It's quite a trick."

He laughs. Well, you had something to do with it, too. You are remarkably strong.

He pauses a moment, letting me readjust myself on the couch before he asks. What happened? I can only assume you didn't find David.

No.I let him pick the memory out of my head, sadness descending again, coloring my thoughts with a despair I don't try to disguise.

Avery reads my feelings, tries to offer what comfort he can. What will you do now?

Go back to David's. Look around some more. See if I've missed anything. If not—I shrug. “I guess I'll have to call the police."

He nods. I'll give you Chief Williams’ s private number. I've told him what we know, but so far, he's learned nothing from his contacts. David seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth.

It's not exactly what I want to hear. I push off the couch. I think I left my bag here yesterday, didn't I?

Avery motions towards the stairs. I took the liberty of putting your things in a bedroom upstairs. I hope you don't mind.

I stand on tiptoe and give him a kiss on the cheek. You've been a good friend.

A good friend?He puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses me back, hard, on the lips. Is that all?

But this isn't the time and my thoughts are too conflicted to give him a proper answer. He reads the signals, lets his hands drop and takes a step back. He does smile, though, and points again to the stairs.

First door to the left—across from my bedroom. By the time you've showered, I'll have breakfast waiting.

I trudge up the stairs wondering how I'll ever repay him for all the help he's given me.

His voice follows me. We'll think of something.

The guestroom is large, the walls painted a pale yellow. Delicate lace curtains move in the breeze of an open window. Bright morning sun is reflected in the gleam of polished mahogany and off the glass in frames of wonderful old oil paintings that look vaguely familiar. Old masters, I'm betting, and originals, not copies. Avery even unpacked my bag. I find my clothes folded neatly in an armoire. I had no toiletries with me, but the adjoining bathroom is well stocked.

He has thought of everything.

A shower and clean clothes revive my body if not my spirit. Avery has eggs and bacon and toast waiting for me when I come back down. The smell triggers a visceral response—my stomach actually growls I'm so hungry.

Avery has set places at a small table in the corner of a big kitchen. It's like a restaurant kitchen with stainless steel appliances and acres of spotless white tile. He holds my chair for me and I sink into it.

I pick up my fork and look over at his place. There's nothing except a cup full of dark liquid. You're not eating?

He holds up the cup. This is all I need.

I start in on the eggs, but after only two bites, I push the plate away. I guess I'm not hungry after all.

Avery looks at me for a long moment, then stands up and goes to the refrigerator. He takes a pitcher out, pours a cup from it and places the cup in the microwave. After thirty seconds, the timer chimes and he brings the cup over to me.

The liquid in the cup is a dark, thick, unmistakable red. I raise an eyebrow. I assume this isn't V-8?

He laughs. No. It's blood.

The eyebrow ratchets higher. Blood? Human Blood?

No, pig's blood. Of course, it's human blood.

I find myself looking around the kitchen suspiciously. Avery, where did you get human blood?

From the servants I keep chained in the basement. Everyday, I drain just enough from them to sustain my own life and prolong theirs.

At first, fear, a cold, creepy thrust of it, knocks me off balance. Then, I see the twinkle in his eye and feel the laughter bubbling just beneath the surface of his mind.

It's a good thing I don't have my gun. I'd be tempted to shoot you for that.

He lets the laughter erupt. For a tough cookie, you are so easy.

I finger the cup, sniff the contents. This smells like blood.

I told you it is. But don't worry. I get it from the hospital blood bank. When we have blood that is going to expire before we can use it, a tech friend of mine gives it to me. It would be thrown out anyway, so why not put it to good use?

But I thought it's not the kind of blood we need.

Technically, no. You couldn't subsist on it for any length of time. But you fed from me just a day or so ago, so you don't need real nourishment. It looks to me as if your taste for regular food is just about gone, too, but you obviously needed something. Think of this as a pick-me-up.

He pauses, a delicate question forming in his head.

No, I answer. I didn't feed from Donaldson. Not that I wouldn't have torn out his throat if he hadn't cooperated. Somebody killed him before I had the chance.

We drink then in desultory silence. The blood has a strange taste. When I drank from Avery, his blood was suffused with life, rich and robust. This is—

"Musty tasting,” Avery explains, reading my reaction. “Like the difference between a fine old wine and a cheap upstart. When you drink from a living creature, you take more than sustenance. You take their life essence. Refrigerated blood loses that spark very quickly. It's why we can't exist on it indefinitely. But it is blood and in an emergency, it has it uses."

"This is an emergency?"

Avery puts his cup down and reaches across the table to take my hand. “You have had a rough night. And I'm afraid what you face today will not be much easier."

I fear that, too. My thoughts are weighed down by the knowledge that I'm no closer to finding David than I was before I went to Beso de la Muerte.

Avery squeezes my hand. “What would you do if David was a fugitive?"

I'm caught off guard by his question. “What?"

"What would you do if you were looking for him because he was wanted by the law?"

I put down my cup and purse my lips. Well, I'd run a credit card check, see if he's bought a plane ticket or made hotel reservations somewhere. I'd call his friends—

My eyes seek Avery's. Gloria. She's in New York.

Avery nods, but just as quickly, I shake my head.

He's not with Gloria. He wouldn't have left knowing I was on my way. I'm the reason he stayed in San Diego in the first place.

What else would you do?

Impatiently, I push away from the table and stand. It's not the same. There was blood in his condo. His wallet and keys were there. The front door was open. David didn't leave willingly. He was taken. The question is why?

I've gathered up my breakfast things and taken them to the sink. Avery waves me off.

Leave the dishes. My housekeeper will be here in a little while.

But I need something to do, even if it's only a mundane thing like rinsing dishes. When I've stowed everything in the dishwasher, I turn back to Avery.

Do you think Chief Williams will help me if I call him?

Of course. Avery pulls a small notebook out of his pocket along with a silver ballpoint pen. He flips to a blank page and starts writing. Then he tears the page off and hands it to me.

"I've already called him and explained the situation. I've included my office number here, too. If you need me today, call. I'll leave word that you should be put straight through."

I fold the paper into my jeans pocket. “I've another favor to ask. Do you suppose I could borrow the Explorer again? If someone is waiting for me at David's, they might be looking for my car."

He points to a spot on the counter. “Help yourself. The keys are right there."

I gather them up and turn to go.

Thank you, Avery. Again.

Anytime, Anna.

He comes around the table and wraps me in a hug. You know I want to help. I just wish there was more I could do.

I let my head rest a moment against his chest, drawing strength. Then I straighten up. Wish me luck.

He smiles. You've got it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

When I get to the condo, I ring the bell, hoping irrationally that David will be there to answer the door. I won't even mind the tongue-lashing he's sure to give me for not showing up last night.

But I know deep down he won't be there and, of course, he isn't.

After a moment, I use his own keys to let myself in, amazed that I thought to grab them before leaving yesterday considering the shape I was in.

Everything is exactly as I remember it.

I make a sweep of the entire condo, a thorough sweep this time, before coming back to the dining room. The blood on the corner of the table has dried to black flakes. Thankfully, there isn't a lot of it. Of course, if David was captured by a vampire, there wouldn't be. I push that thought out of my head.

After I've stared at the blood for ten minutes and no useful idea how I might proceed presents itself, I dial Chief Williams. He answers himself, surprising me into speechlessness for a moment until I remember that Avery said this was a private line.

"Chief Williams, this is Anna Strong."

A deep-timbred voice comes back across the line. “Dr. Avery said you might call. Nothing from your friend?"

"No. And I'm really worried. Do you suppose you could send someone to meet me at his condo? I need a professional cop's opinion. I'm out of my depth here."

"I can be there in ten minutes. What's the address?"

I give him the address, unit number and tell him I'll buzz him in. He hangs up and I stare at the phone for a moment. He's coming himself? Not a good sign, I'm sure.

When Williams arrives, he's alone and in civilian clothes. Another surprise. He shakes my hand and explains, this is my day off.

He follows me inside, and his gray-green eyes scan the interior. It's lightning fast but I get the impression he's not missing much. His mind is closed, allowing me the freedom to size him up at close range, something I didn't do at the party. He's tall, over 6', but not as tall as David. He's much leaner, too, a vampire trait, I've discovered. Must be the liquid protein diet. He's wearing jeans and a polo shirt topped by a leather bomber jacket, worn Nike sports shoes on his feet. His hair is dark, but flecked with gray. I wonder if that's an affectation. I don't know how old he is, but I would imagine a police chief would be at least in his fifties. Williams's face is unlined for the most part. Can't do anything about that if you're a vampire, but the hair can “age."

He turns those sharp eyes on me. He lifts a hand and runs it through his hair. Does it look natural? It's a bitch trying to convince a hair stylist that you want gray in your hair when the majority of their clientele is devoted to taking it out.

Very natural.I wave a hand. What do you think?

Williams walks out on the balcony before responding. Nice view.

Nice view? I follow him onto the deck. Chief Williams, my friend is missing. I'm very concerned about him. I need your opinion about what to do. Should I file a missing person's report? Should I start contacting his friends and family? I'm at my wit's end here. I really need your help.

Williams takes a cigar case from the inside pocket of his jacket, takes his time extracting a fat cigar, and rolls it between his fingers before finally bringing it to his lips. He bites off the tip and spits it over the balcony. Then he breaks out a lighter and puffs away until the glowing tip catches.

During all this, I'm shifting from one foot to the other, swallowing back my impatience and fighting down a wave of anger. When he's finally completed the cigar ritual, he raises indifferent eyes to mine.

David is a mortal.

He sounds suspiciously like Avery. And what's your point?

We don't get involved in mortal affairs. Not when it involves the possibility that our identities could be revealed in the course of an investigation.

Our identities? Just whose identity are you worried about?

He makes himself comfortable on a deck chair and leans back, the hand with the cigar resting on the arm. He acts like this is a social visit.

Not at all,he replies. I know how serious this is to you. I just don't know what I can do to help.

Well, let me tell you. You can act like a cop. You can help me file a report, put out an APB on David, act like you give a damn that my best friend and partner is missing. Those things would be a good start.

Williams's eyes turn hard. My getting involved would be a mistake.

Why?

Because it's very possible your friend was taken in retaliation for your escaping the Revengers the other night. If that's the case, opening an investigation won't help. It will only call attention to the fact that you have influence in the police department. Not a good thing.

I stare at him a moment. But it was a cop who stopped me. One of yours.

Not one of mine, I assure you.

Williams climbs to his feet, flicks ash over the balcony railing, and turns to me. Not a city cop. The Revengers are state patrolmen.

He's right—a distinction I hadn't made until now.

Believe me,William's continues, I do my best to discover their identities and weed them out.

Weed them out?There's no mistaking what he's saying . How do you manage that?

He shrugs. Accident, hot call goes bad. Fortunately, we haven't had to deal with it much lately. Donaldson's activity is what triggered this new rash of vampire hunting. It would have helped if you'd gotten a badge or car number.

Well, forgive me for not thinking too clearly. I'd only been a vampire for a day or two, I wasn't expecting to be kidnapped. And if what you say is true, and the Revenger's took David, why haven't they contacted me? What would they want?

Their intention may simply be to persuade you to move on. It's not often they stumble on a vampire with close friends or family members to use as leverage. Most vampires are too old to have living relatives. In your case, though, there's David, your parents. I think Avery mentioned a boyfriend, too.

At that, what little patience I have left melts like ice cream under the heat of mounting hostility towards Chief Williams. “Are you saying they'll go after my parents next? Or my boyfriend? And there's nothing you can do about it?"

Williams holds up a hand. “What I'm saying is that there may not be anything I can do about it. You got the better of them, not something that happens very often. But look what's happened since. You've lost your home, your partner is missing. It's very possible if you leave San Diego, relocate somewhere else, David might be released."

" Mightbe released. You don't know that for sure."

He puffs calmly on the cigar, ignoring the rising tide of my anger. No. I don't know anything for sure, including if they even have David. But what alternative do you have? I know this isn't easy, but sometimes the best thing a vampire can do is move on. We've all had to do it. Word will get around that Donaldson is gone and things will quiet down. It's even possible that you might be able to return to San Diego in a year or two.

And what do I tell my parents in the meantime?

Tell them the truth. Your home has been destroyed. What do you really have to tie you here? I understand from Dr. Avery that relations between you and your family are strained.

How does he know that? Then I remember. Avery was probably reading my thoughts at the hospital from the moment I came in.

But that doesn't explain why he would share them with Williams.

Williams shrugs. He thought I should know. It might help me to persuade you to do the right thing.

And that's to leave San Diego.

For the time being. Let things cool down.

And this is really what Avery wants?

At that, Williams turns away from me, shielding his eyes and his thoughts from my scrutiny. Finally, he says softly, “Avery has developed a soft spot for you. He isn't thinking too clearly right now. He needs a cooler head to prevail, which is why he had you contact me. He knew I could be impersonal about this situation where he cannot."

"So, he doesn't want me to leave?"

Williams doesn't answer.

It rankles, but I don't see that I have any option except to go along with him, at least for now. “Do you have any way to get a message to the Revengers?"

Williams looks at me, eyebrow raised. “Why?"

"Because I'm willing to do as you request, but only after David is released unharmed."

His eyes narrow. “Do you mean that?"

"Does that mean you can get a message to them?"

"If I answer that, in a court of law, it would be an admission that I know who they are. I'm not saying that I do."

Spoken like a damned lawyer. I snap, “How badly do you want me gone?"

Williams shifts away from the balcony, crossing into the living room. At the door, he pauses. He doesn't look around, but his voice floats back across the quiet room. “I'll see what I can do. I'll call you at Avery's tonight."

I wait until the door is closed behind him to let my mind open. I don't trust him. And my instincts tell me that as crazy as it sounds, he not only knows about the Revengers, he may very well be one of them. Which makes me wonder why Avery trusts him so much.

If he does.

But Avery is the one who suggested I contact Chief Williams.

My stomach churns with impatience. It doesn't make sense. Why would Avery do that? He doesn't act like he wants me gone, either, which is what Williams implied. And if the Revengers have David, why not just contact me and offer to make the switch—

my life for David's?

What in hell is going on?