Текст книги "Blood Drive"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Blood Drive
Anna Strong Chronicles – 2
by
Jeanne C. Stein

Chapter One

Monday

The guy squirms against me like a worm on a hook. He’s in his early twenties, built like a defensive lineman-big muscles, big gut, no neck. He keeps moaning and pressing himself against my chest and I have to hold his head to keep a good grip. Culebra said he’d been here before, but the way he’s wriggling around, I’m afraid I’m hurting him.

I swallow a mouthful of blood, open my eyes, and look up at Culebra. I need more but I’m unsure if I should continue.

Culebra’s arms are crossed on his chest. He isn’t paying attention. In fact, he looks bored, and when he feels my eyes on him, he shrugs and says, “What?”

My thoughts reach out. Should I stop?

His own come back . Have you had enough?

No. But he keeps moving.

He rolls his shoulders again. He’s been well paid. He’s here because he wants to be. He is not a virgin, you know. He’s done this many times before. He moves because he finds it pleasurable. Watch his hands.

I do. They’re at his crotch, caressing a bulge in his jeans.

Oh my god. Is he-?

The lines on Culebra’s face deepen as he grins. You could make it more pleasurable for him, you know. All you would have to do is-

I gulp two or three more mouthfuls. I know what he’s going to say. All I want is the blood. What I need to refresh and restore. I’ve learned to ignore the other sensation, the thrill that spirals into powerful sexual hunger if you let it. When I finish and pull away, the kid actually groans louder and reaches up to pull my head back down to his neck.

I jump to my feet, moving so fast the kid loses his balance and his head hits the floor.

Culebra laughs. I hear as well as sense it.

I reach down and help the kid into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

His mouth curves upward in a grin, but his eyes are clouded. He makes no move to get up. “You didn’t have to stop, you know.” It’s a combination of a growl and a whine. One hand remains between his legs and the other is on his neck, though there’s not a mark to show I’ve drunk.

I always make sure of that.

I raise an eyebrow at Culebra. Next time, I want someone who does it just for the money.

Again, the shrug and the upturned palms. As you wish.

I follow Culebra out of the back room of the saloon, leaving my libidinous donor to his own devices. It’s September, late afternoon, and bright sun pours through the swinging doors. In the glare, dust motes dance and twirl on an invisible draft of air.

The place is almost deserted. Two humans, friends of the guy in the back, wait for him at the bar, nursing drinks. One vamp couple sit, knees touching, at a table against the back wall. Their thoughts are hot with desire. As soon as I pick up on it, I shut down. Vampire telepathy is not always a good thing. The sexual energy they’re emitting makes me edgy, especially after feeding.

We cross to the bar where the bartender greets Culebra with marked deference. The bartender is human, another of those who find it exciting to be in the presence of supernaturals. He asks what we’d like to drink.

Culebra waves him off, reaching into the cooler under the bar for two beers. Culebra owns the place. In fact, he owns the entire town. Without a word, the bartender moves away.

Culebra pops the tops and hands me one of the beers.

I take a long pull. It goes down easily, washing away the salty aftertaste of the blood, refreshing in the way that an icy drink satisfies after eating peanuts or spicy foods. Consuming liquid is the only form of human sustenance left to me.

Culebra is watching me. When I meet his eyes, he nods . What happened back there, it’s not perfect, but it’s the best we can do.

I know it’s true. I don’t have to like it.

He leans across the bar, sharp eyes acknowledging a response he’s plucked from the air. His face is ageless yet old, the surface covered with tiny lines and wrinkles etched by the stylus of a life I know nothing about.

He shuts me out of his thoughts now, and the ease with which he can do that makes me uneasy. I am vampire and supposedly at the top of the food chain as far as immortals are concerned. I don’t know whatCulebra is. He hasn’t shared that yet. He can read my thoughts and I his, when he lets me. He is the only nonhuman creature who can hide himself so completely that I can’t glean the smallest fragment of his true being. And yet, with the death of Avery, in the two months since I’ve become vampire, this unlikely character, with the name that means “rattlesnake,” has become one of my closest friends.

He’s staring again, picking through my thoughts like a beggar with a bag full of clothes-hopeful, expectant but resigned to the reality that all he’s likely to find are castoffs. Nothing new and nothing that fits.

So.Hismouth turns down in a frown. You haven’t spoken with Williams yet, have you?

I shake my head. What can he say to me? Nothing I want to hear. And what can I say to him? That I’m sorry I almost killed him? That would be a lie.

He sniffs impatiently. I suppose it has never occurred to you that he might have things you need to hear. Important things. Like your heritage and what lies ahead.

My heritage? You mean like finding out I’m a descendant of Vlad the Impaler?Thatprovokes a snicker that bubbles up before I can stifle it. When did Chief Williams put you on his payroll? Every time I come down here it’s the same thing. It’s becoming tedious.

The frown deepens. Then take me up on my offer. Stay here. Work with me. I can teach you what you need to know.

I lay the bottle down on the counter and wave a hand. This is what I need to know. I have a life in San Diego. My home is almost rebuilt. My business is going well. How would I explain leaving all that behind to move down here? What would I tell my parents?

Culebra radiates aggravation. This concern for mortals.His tone is sharp. I understand now why Avery found you so irritating.

My shoulders draw tight. The mention of Avery, my vampire mentor who betrayed my trust and almost destroyed me, evokes a sharp pain of loss. I loved him, which made all that happened between us that much more hurtful. Culebra knows this, and his remark is deliberate and cruel.

I place both hands on the bar to steady myself before raising my eyes to meet his. You cannot bait me. I owe you a debt. One I am willing to repay. But I will not relinquish whatever natural time I have left with my family and friends to stay here with you. My life is my own. I thought you understood that.

A life that involves chasing human scum wanted for petty crimes. You deal with criminals. You are above that.

I smile. This town, Beso de la Muerte, Kiss of Death, isn’t this a Mexican hideaway? Isn’t this home to criminals both human and otherwise who have earned your protection in one way or another? You, too, deal with criminals. How is that so different from what I do?

Culebra has no answer. A long moment passes. He looks away, then back at me and the rancor is gone. Sooner or later you will have to accept what you’ve become.

What have I not accepted? I’m here, aren’t I? I will not deny myself the time I have left with those I love. Neither will Williams. Neither will you.

Suddenly, the cloud lifts from Culebra’s face and his thoughts clear, become neutral. The corners of his lips curl upward. I’m impatient. An illogical emotion when dealing with one who is immortal, I know. But now you had better go. The lines at the border crossing will be long. I believe your parents are expecting you for dinner.

Something I know I hadn’t mentioned. I raise an eyebrow. Again, he has pulled a bit of information from my subconscious. I scowl at him.

You are annoying, you know that?

He smiles.

I leave Culebra with a wave. The next time I see him will be the next time the hunger strikes. I won’t miss the lectures.

My car is parked just outside the saloon. One dusty, slouching, wooden building in a street full of them. It’s an hour’s drive from the border yet no one ever ventures here uninvited. I suspect Culebra has cast some kind of protective spell over the place.

Another of those things I would have thought preposterous three months ago, when I was human.

I set off for the border with a glance at my watch. Culebra was right. My folks live on Mt.Helix, a bedroom community east of San Diego. They’re expecting me at six and I’ll be cutting it close. I press my foot down on the accelerator and let the Jag have its head. We race a funnel of twirling, dancing dust out of town.

I look back in the rear view mirror and see Culebra standing alone on the sidewalk, one hand raised in farewell.

Chapter Two

My mother eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Anna, you look so thin. And you hardly touched your dinner. Are you on one of those silly low-carb diets?”

I almost choke on a mouthful of coffee. I’m on the ultimate low-carb diet. I put on a bright smile. “Of course not, Mom. I told you. I had a late lunch.”

But I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s a high school principal who has observed firsthand the symptoms of anorexia and bulimia. I think she might be concerned that I’m on the same path as her teenaged students. In three months I’ve lost twenty pounds. I can’t check my appearance in the mirror, but my body feels harder, leaner, more efficient. My business partner, David, has commented on it, too. He attributes it to stricter workouts.

I attribute it to a liquid protein diet. Not something I can share with any human.

But now my dad chimes in. “Leave her alone, Anita. She looks fine to me. She’s trimmed down, that’s all. She’s been working out.” He sends a pointed glance my mother’s way. “Something we should try. Too much pasta and not enough exercise in this family. Anna sets a good example.”

I smile at him, squeezing his hand. He looks tan and relaxed and very dapper this evening in gray slacks and a pink polo shirt. His thick silver hair is brushed back and with a pair of reading glasses perched on the top of his head, he looks like the prosperous investment banker he is.

“You should talk,” my mother scolds. “Eighteen holes once or twice a week in a golf cart hardly qualifies as a rigorous exercise regime.”

It’s a familiar theme. Both my parents tend to eschew physical exercise and yet at sixty, my mother is the most beautiful woman I know. She’s five foot five, small-boned and slender. Her honey-colored hair is touched with silver and falls in a smooth, straight sweep to her shoulders.

Physically, we’re not so dissimilar-same color hair and hazel eyes. But she has a natural grace about her that shines from within and without. I, however, inherited my father’s more earthy temperament along with his thick, curly hair. Just as well, really, since I can’t use a mirror anymore. Being able to go out in the sun enables me to keep color in my cheeks, so finger combing my hair after a shower and a little dab of lipstick is the extent of my primping nowadays.

Chalk that one up on the plus side to becoming a vampire.

My dad’s voice brings me back. “I drove by the cottage the other day, Anna. When do you think you’ll move in?”

My smile is wide and genuine. “Next week. The finishing work is all that’s left. Kitchen cabinets, a few baseboards. I’ve ordered furniture. When the contractor gives me the word, I’ll call the store and arrange delivery.”

“And the police don’t know who set the fire?”

I look down at my coffee cup, toying with it a moment before answering. I know who set the fire. And I exacted my own justice. But that’s not something I can share.

“The police think it was some kids,” I lied. Something else I’ve gotten very good at. “Anyway, the insurance came through and the cottage is rebuilt, so I’m not going to dwell on who did it. I get too angry when I think about it.” That part, at least, is true.

The telephone rings just then and my mother rises to answer it, patting my shoulder as she moves past. I rise with her and gather dishes to take to the sink. It gives me a chance to scrape the garlic-laden pasta sauce off my plate and into the disposal without anyone noticing the gag reflex that threatens to overwhelm me. I’m getting better at hiding such things, but I have to come up with a reason that will gently convince my mother to fix something other than pasta when I come to dinner.

An allergy to tomato sauce maybe?

I’m loading the dishwasher when she comes back into the room. An inquisitive frown tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Anna,” she says. “Do you remember Carolyn Delaney?”

It takes me a moment to recall the name. When I do, it’s with a jolt. “Steve’s girlfriend from Cornell?”

She nods. “Yes.” She picks up a sponge and starts wiping the counter. But I know she’s shaken. My brother was eighteen when he died, two years older than me, struck by a drunk driver on his way to classes at Cornell University. It was fourteen years ago, but the pain from that kind of wound never heals.

My dad has risen from the table, dishes in hand, and he joins us by the sink. “What about her?”

Mom tilts her head. “She’s here in town. She called to get your telephone number, Anna. I told her you were here, and since she was calling from a gas station just a few miles away, I invited her over.”

Her announcement sends a tingle of alarm racing up my spine.

Why would a friend of my brother’s, a woman I met only once fourteen years ago, want to get in touch with me?

I turn back to the sink, busying myself with the cleanup, afraid the quiet, comfortable evening I envisioned spending with my folks is about to spiral into something quite different.

Chapter Three

It’s been a long time, but the mental picture I have of Carolyn Delaney is sharp. She was a petite, blue-eyed blonde who possessed a smile that dazzled. She had a radiant, bubbly personality, and she was a cheerleader no less. Couple all that with the fact that Steve was obviously head over heels in love, it’s no wonder I hated her on sight.

But to make matters worse, Carolyn exuded sexuality. Not the high school, fumbling, experimental kind of sexuality I happened to be experiencing at the time, but the real thing. I was only sixteen, but I could tell she and Steve were sleeping together. Until he went away to college, I was the sole object of Steve’s affection-brotherly, to be sure-but that was what he told me. With Carolyn, I knew her hold on my brother went way beyond anything I could compete with.

Like a whirlwind, all that spins through my head now as I prepare myself to come face to face with the female who usurped my place in my brother’s heart all those years ago. I expect it will rankle, especially since she hadn’t had the grace to come to Steve’s funeral.

When Mom ushers her into living room, though, all that is forgotten. The woman standing in front of us bears no resemblance to the coed. The years have not been kind to Carolyn Delaney. She’s overweight, with the boxy, waistless figure of a woman who hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since college. She’s wearing baggy jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt that reaches almost to her knees. A tote bag the size of a small suitcase dangles from one shoulder. Her platinum blonde hair has faded to dishwater, and the once sparkling eyes turn down at the corners, as if a lifetime of frowning has left them in a perpetual slump. The smile is vanished, gone without a trace.

Immense sorrow emanates from her. And something else. An emotion that snaps my vampire senses to full alert.

Fear?Or duplicity? They smell very much alike.

It puts me on my guard.

My mother guides her in with a hand on her arm. Carolyn has placed her own hand over it, in a gesture that suggests that if my mother moves away, she might bolt.

I take a hesitant step toward them. “Carolyn? I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Anna, Steve’s sister. Mom said you were trying to get in touch with me?”

Her eyes shift from my mother’s face to mine. “Yes. I remember you.” But that’s all she says as she eases the tote bag to the floor and turns toward my father. “And you’re Steve’s dad. James, isn’t it?”

He replies with a brief nod and takes her other arm, motioning her toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit down? Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?”

She shakes her head. “No. Thank you.” She sinks into the couch, letting her head rest a moment against the cushions.

“Are you all right?” Mom’s voice is gentle.

Carolyn fixes her gaze on Steve’s picture against the far wall. “No.” She passes a hand over her face, shielding herself from our scrutiny, as if sorry now that she made the decision to come.

The three of us find ourselves standing over her in confused wariness.

The drama is beginning to grate. I wish I could probe the human mind as easily as I can another vampire’s. But I can’t. Like my parents, all I can do is wait, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

Finally my mother, ever the facilitator, sits down beside Carolyn. Her lips curve in an amiable smile of concern. She takes Carolyn’s hands and holds them in her own, rubbing gently as if to warm them. “Carolyn Delaney. You know, it’s an amazing coincidence, but we have a parent at our school with the same name. I think of you often because of it.”

Carolyn drops her eyes. “It isn’t a coincidence, Mrs. Strong.”

Mom gives a little start. “It isn’t? You’re related to Trish Delaney?”

The way my mother asks the question tells me she knows the girl, and her impression is not at all favorable.

Carolyn’s face flushes with color. “She’s been in some trouble, I know.”

My father’s eyes register the shock and surprise on Mom’s face. “Anita?” he asks. “You know this girl?”

Mom’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I know Trish. She’s missed quite a bit of school this year. We suspect a drug problem. Both the school nurse and her counselor tell me they’ve tried to contact you, Carolyn, many times. You never return the calls.”

Carolyn’s shoulders sag. “I was afraid to. Afraid if I came to school, if you recognized me-” She bites off the words, shakes her head, and continues, “But I did try to get Trish help on my own. I made appointments for her with a counselor at the hospital where I work. But I couldn’t force her to attend the sessions.” Her eyes shift to me. “That’s why I’m here. She’s run away. I want you to find her.”

A runaway?

My parents and I exchange looks-we don’t have to speak the words aloud to know what each is thinking. The fact that she’s come to us, virtual strangers, with a problem that is better addressed by the authorities can only mean one thing. There’s more. There has to be.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You should call me at the office tomorrow. Or better yet, go to the police. They are the ones-”

“I can’t go to the police. Youhave to help her.”

“What do you expect me to do?” I ask, my voice sounding brittle in my ears. “I’m not a drug counselor.”

A glimmer of hope sparks in Carolyn’s eyes. “You are a bounty hunter. You track people. You can find Trish before the police and we can work out a deal for her.”

I frown at her, afraid my suspicion is about to be confirmed. “What did Trish do that she’d need a deal from the police?”

Carolyn’s voice is barely a whisper. “She’s in trouble. More than the drugs.”

It’s not an answer, but I don’t care. I see how this is affecting my parents and I want Carolyn gone. “I’m sorry, Carolyn. I understand how upset you must be that your daughter is in trouble. But you need a private detective, not a bounty hunter. I have my hands full chasing people who present a real danger to society, not an out of control teenager.”

“That’s what you think she is? An out of control teenager?”

“Well, isn’t she?” Resentment is beginning to prickle the back of my neck. “What did she do? Get caught dealing? And why in the world would you come to my parents’ home to ask for help?”

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she says quietly. “I think Trish may have killed someone.”

The answer comes quickly, but it’s the last one we’re prepared to hear. Mom and Dad stare at her. I’m trying to decide if I heard her correctly.

“You suspect Trish has killed someone?”

“It’s not her fault,” Carolyn says. “Not really. It’s one of her teachers.”

“Teacher?” Mom’s sharp voice cuts in like a razor.

Carolyn’s voice loses its tenuous waiver, becomes heated. “His name is Daniel Frey. He teaches English. He mentors students, uses his ‘sensitive nature’ to help them get in touch with their inner selves while he’s getting in touch with everything else. He’s a drug dealer, among other things, and a pedophile-”

Mom presses both hands over her eyes as if they burn with weariness. “You have proof of this?”

The question startles me into shifting my gaze from Carolyn to my mother. “You don’t sound surprised.”

She lets her hands drop and turns away from me to face Carolyn. “I’ve heard those rumors,” she says. “They have never been substantiated. Daniel Frey is a tenured teacher with a good record. His students love him. Without proof of wrongdoing, there has never been anything I could do.”

Carolyn’s eyes bore into my mother’s. “Hear me out,” she says. “Help me find Trish. I’ll give you all the proof you need.”

“Wait a minute.” I’m still reeling over the turn this conversation has taken. “Mom, Carolyn should be telling this to the police. She has no right to involve you. If she thinks it’s because she and Steve were friends-”

“We were more than friends.”

She says it quietly.

“Okay. You were more than friends. That doesn’t give you the right-”

My mother draws a quick breath and raises a hand to stop me. “Anna. Wait. Trish is thirteen.”

I don’t understand the implication of Mom’s words and I’m not ready to relinquish the resentment I feel toward Carolyn. Her presence here brings back a rush of bad memories. “So what?”

Carolyn turns away from me to face my mother. “You know?”

I blow out an impatient puff of air. “Know what?”

Mom’s voice has the hollow ring of shock. “Trish is Steve’s daughter. Isn’t she, Carolyn?”