Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Retribution
Anna Strong Chronicles – 5
by
Jeanne C. Stein

To my pop—who never really got it

And my family and friends who do

This one’s for you

PROLOGUE

IT WAS TOO DARK.

She couldn’t see.

Her nose wrinkled. Something smelled bad. Smelled of urine and vomit and . . .

Death. She recognized it, though she shouldn’t have been able to. She wouldn’t have been able to twenty-four hours ago.

She was afraid. He was supposed to be here. He promised to be here.

She stepped closer to the wall, away from the door. The dark clutched at her with icy fingers. She was too new. She felt vulnerable, exposed. Her blood, his blood, ran through her veins, but it offered no protection. Where was the strength he promised? The freedom from fear?

She began to shake. She was so hungry. She needed to feed. He said he’d be here to help her. To show her what to do.

A sound, the scrabbling of claws on concrete, made her jump. Her skin tightened at the base of her spine. There were rats in here. Rats. He didn’t expect her to eat rats, did he? No, he’d have to let her feed from him again if that’s what he had planned.

She would not eat vermin. No matter how hungry she was.

She felt a thrill of excitement. She had done it. She had become vampire, one of the strong, one of the immortal. It wasn’t exactly what she expected—the becoming. But she’d crossed the threshold and come out the other side. She was vampire.

So, why was she cringing here in the dark like a child just because he was late? Hadn’t he said instinct would kick in when the time came to take her first human?

Maybe he had more faith in her abilities than she did.

Maybe he had decided to let her hunt on her own because he knew what she was capable of.

Maybe he was right outside the door, waiting for her to—

To what?

She peered into the darkness. There wasn’t anyone here. There were no humans in the building, of that she was certain. She didn’t smell anything except the putrid odor of decay. She didn’t hear any hearts beating, nothing breathing or snorting or coughing.

She was alone.

With the rats.

She pressed a dial on her watch. The face glowed. She’d been here thirty minutes. She would wait five more.

She worked her way back along the wall to the door. There was no moonlight to break the gloom or cast a shadow through the broken windows. Irritation quickened her step. Why had he told her to meet him here? Was this some stupid initiation prank? If it was, she didn’t find it funny. He’d know that soon enough.

She pushed at the door.

It creaked open.

He was waiting for her outside, his features pale in the dim light.

“Where have you been?”

He smiled and raised his arm.

A shiver of uncertainty ran up her spine. “What is that?”

He took one step closer and fired.

The dart from the crossbow caught her just under her left breast. A prick.

Warmth.

Then . . .

I SIT STRAIGHT UP IN BED—HEART POUNDING.

Christ.

What a weird dream.

CHAPTER 1

THERE ARE SOME THINGS ABOUT BEING A VAMPIRE that come in handy in my line of work.

Tonight is a perfect example.

I’m a bounty hunter. The human I’m after is sitting at a bar ten feet away from me getting shit -faced on cheap beer and bad whiskey.

She’s leaning on the shoulder of her loser boyfriend, whose name is Hank. I know this because I smell the booze, see the drunken haze clouding her eyes, hear every word they’re saying. Where they plan to go when they leave, who they’re planning to meet, how much money they expect to have after they rob the neighborhood 7-Eleven.

She has no idea that anyone is listening. How could she? The noise in this dive is at jet engine decibels. But I hear. Everything.

She pushes herself off the bar stool and staggers to her feet. Her name is Hilda. She’s wanted for three counts of aggravated assault. The boyfriend she’s drinking with is one of the complainants. Seems they ’ve made up. She’s about five feet four inches, two hundred fifty pounds. She’s dressed in low-cut jeans and a tight T-shirt.

Not a pretty picture.

Hilda gathers up what’s left of a twenty—a fiver and some coin. The barkeep laid the change down five minutes ago with a smile after she’d called for the tab.

The barkeep’s expression now reflects disappointment; he thought she might forget.

Hilda’s expression says fat chance.

Hilda pushes the coins toward him but drops the bill down the front of her shirt and grins. “Want a bigger tip? Come get it.”

Hank grabs her arm. “What are you talking about, bitch?”

The bartender takes a step back and moves away. The boyfriend is bigger than Hilda and mean-looking. I can see by the frown on his face that the barkeep thinks no five-dollar tip is worth the aggravation. He moves to the other side of the bar.

Hilda and her boyfriend argue all the way to the door. I slip out right after them. I already know where they ’ve parked their car and while they lurch toward it, I take off ahead of them. By the time they get to me, I’m leaning against the driver’s side door, twirling a pair of handcuffs.

“What the fuck?” Hank says.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Hilda echoes.

“Hilda, Hilda. I got a call from your daughter this afternoon. She’s upset. Do you know why?”

Hilda’s eyes scrunch. “No. Why?”

“You must have forgotten that you had a court date this week. You didn’t show up. Now if I don’t get you to jail tonight, your daughter is going to lose her house. You really wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

The boyfriend snarls and takes what I’m sure he imagines to be a menacing step toward me.

The fact that his eyes are crossed and drool spindles from the corner of his mouth takes the sting out of the threat. I hold my ground and snarl right back. Literally.

His eyes widen, but he places his hands on swaying hips and says, “Those are bullshit charges. You’d better get away from my car, little lady, or I’m going to have to take you over my knee.”

He grins at Hilda. “That’s pretty good, huh? We’ll give this bitch a spanking she’ll never forget.”

Hilda grins back. For a minute, I think they’ve forgotten I’m here. Then they both turn around.

And start to run.

In opposite directions.

Hank picks the better route—toward the street. With surprising dexterity, he leapfrogs into the back of a moving pickup and peeks up over the gate. The driver doesn’t realize he’s picked up a passenger and continues on his way down the road.

Hank has no bounty on his ass, so I don’t care. I take off after Hilda. She has a head start. Still, it’s no contest. She’s two hundred and fifty pounds of couch potato. I don’t need to tap into vampire strength or speed. I’m on her before she makes it to the end of the parking lot.

I push her to the ground and jump on her broad back. She bucks under me like a bull. I yank both of her hands behind her and snap on the cuffs. It happens so fast, she doesn’t realize she’s trussed until she tries to push herself up.

She starts to yell. For Hank.

“Save your breath, sweetie,” I whisper in her ear. “The last glimpse I had of Hank, he was hopping in the back of a pickup. He’s long gone.”

I reach down and haul her to her feet. I use one hand, as if she weighs twenty-five pounds instead of two-fifty. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

Hilda is looking at me bleary-eyed with confusion and alcohol. “How did you—? What did you—? Where did you—?”

I pat her head and push her toward my own car. “Don’t try to figure it out, Hilda. You’ll hurt yourself.”

She stumbles forward. I’ve got one hand on the cuffs and one on the small of her back. We’re just about at the car when my cell phone rings.

I dig it out of my pocket and flip it open.

It’s my partner, David, on vacation in the Bahamas.

“Hey, Anna,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Just peachy.” I open the rear car door and shove Hilda down onto the seat. “Are you having fun?”

He laughs. “I’m laying on a beach drinking mojitos out of coconut shells. How about you?”

Hilda looks up at me and spits. Only trouble is, she’s got the coordination of a drunk and the spittle dribbles down her own chin and settles somewhere in the vicinity of that five-dollar bill she’d shoved down her blouse.

I slam the door and take my place behind the wheel. “Actually, yes,” I tell David. “I am having fun.”

CHAPTER 2

IDEPOSIT HILDA IN CITY LOCKUP AND HEAD TO the office David and I share on Pacific Coast Highway. It’s just past midnight on a Saturday night and the restaurants in Seaport Village, our a neighbor to the south, have already shuttered for the night. I take a beer out of the fridge, gather the day’s mail from the desktop and step out onto the wooden deck that spans the rear of the building.

It’s a cool, moonless, late April evening. Too cool for a human to enjoy sitting out on the deck the way I am now. For a vampire, temperature is irrelevant. Ninety degrees or fifty, makes no difference. However, the feel of a soft ocean breeze blowing off the water, the cool iciness of the beer bottle in my hand, the play of light on the water from Coronado across the bay, are human sensibilities I can still enjoy.

The beast is quiet within me. It’s nice.

I place the bottle on the deck and sort through the mail. A couple of bills, a couple of checks. A postcard.

From France. The Eiffel Tower.

I flip it over, smiling because I know it will be from my niece. Trish ’s precise, graceful script fills the back. Her friend Ryan and his parents are visiting for spring break. They’ve traveled from my family’s home in Avignon to Paris and her words sparkle with wonder and excitement. Her fourteenth birthday is next week and they plan to celebrate with fireworks at the chateau. Could I possibly fly over, too?

Oh, Trish, I wish I could.

She is having such a good time, learning so much. I can’t remember ever feeling as optimistic or hopeful about the future as she does. It’s a gift. I wish I could share it with her. If I were human, I might be able to.

As a vampire, I’m afraid that all I can bring to her life is the threat of danger. She and my parents are better off with distance between us.

It’s the reason they are now living on a winery in France and I’m chasing lowlifes like Hilda in San Diego.

I gather the mail and the now -empty beer bottle and go back inside. For the first time, I notice the message light blinking on the telephone. I lift the receiver and punch in the code for voice mail.

“Anna. It’s Williams. This is the fifth message I’ve left. I need to talk to you, damn it. It’s important.”

I delete this message just as I have the other four. He doesn’t seem to get it. I don’t want to talk to him.

I slip the checks into a drawer to be deposited tomorrow, place the bills on the desk blotter and prop the postcard against my computer monitor. I’ll call Trish on her birthday. I can do that. Talk to her. Let her know I love her.

And speaking of love . . .

I close the slider and grab my car keys. I have a date up the coast. It’ll take me a while to go home, shower and get to Malibu but I know what awaits me is worth it.

LANCE MEETS ME AT THE DOOR OF HIS BEACH HOUSE wearing a smile and an open terry robe. He ’s tall, handsome in an edgy, bad-boy way and has blond hair that falls to his shoulders. The look he’s giving me makes my blood heat and my heart pound. He’s as happy to see me as I am to be here.

“What took you?” he asks, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside. “I’ve missed you.”

“I can see that.”

He pulls me over to the couch and lets me plop down before reaching for the opened bottle of wine sitting beside two glasses on his coffee table. He pours, I take one, and in another second he’s beside me and I’m settling my head on his shoulder.

“This is nice,” I say.

And I mean it. I met Lance right around Christmastime last year when everything in my life was going to hell. He was the one bright spot—a willing, energetic and quite enthusiastic lover who helped me forget my problems.

Amazingly, we became friends and that led to our becoming reallovers. He’s an underwear model for Jockey. Do I need to say more about the body? He’s also a vampire, which means I don’t have to hide my nature or hold back in our lovemaking for fear I’ll hurt him. We can bite, suck and fuck each other’s brains out.

It’s liberating. It’s cathartic. It’s an arrangement I can live with.

I release a breath, run a hand over his chest, down lean muscled, rock-hard abs.

His human buddies have to diet and work out all the time to keep this kind of physique. The only diet Lance is on is the one we share—

the liquid protein kind.

He’s a female vamp’s wet dream.

And for now, he’s mine.

I let my hand roam farther, a feather touch, teasing.

He responds, staying my hand with his own, guiding my fingers so they encircle him, letting me feel him grow bigger, a pulse that ’s an invitation.

He shifts to take my glass out of my hand. He places the glasses on the table and stands up, drawing me with him. He lets his robe fall to the carpet.

In a heartbeat, I’m out of my clothes, too.

He lowers me to the floor, his mouth on mine, his own fingers exploring. Heat radiates from his touch, making me shiver with need.

Blood sings. I’m ready. More than ready.

Time to get down to business.

THE BEDSIDE CLOCK SAYS THREE A.M. LANCE IS ASLEEP beside me. So why can’t I fall asleep?

I kick off the covers and slide out of bed. His house is right on the beach, one of the perks of being a successful male model. The slider is open and the rhythm of the ocean draws me outside. I don’t bother to take a robe or wrap a towel around me, but stand naked on the deck. At this time of morning, who is around to see?

The water is black under a cloud-studded sky. The surf advances and retreats from a white, sandy beach with comforting regularity. The smell of sand and sea is rich, teeming with life. Before Malibu was an enclave of the rich and famous, before there was a Los Angeles, before there were people, there was the ocean.

The concept of time changes when you’re a vamp. Maybe that’s why the sea draws me the way it does. If I’m not staked or beheaded or burned to death, I may live to see Malibu reclaimed by the ocean.

I used to be afraid of the idea of immortality. Had difficulty accepting the notion of never-ending life. Something is shifting inside me. I’m not so afraid anymore.

Not for myself. But when I lose my family, when I watch generations come and go without being a part of what makes human life bearable, when I have to constantly build new relationships to replace those I’ve lost—I may rethink the price of immortality.

Lance awakens. I hear his sleepy voice in my head. Anna, what are you doing out there?

I half turn toward him. Contemplating eternity.

CHAPTER 3

JUST AS HAVING A MALIBU BEACH HOUSE IS A PERK of being a successful model, early morning photo shoots are a drawback.

Lance’s alarm clock goes off at four thirty. I hear it before he does. I prop myself up on my elbows.

We’re outside, on a chaise, with only his robe thrown over us. He’d joined me earlier to watch the ocean and one thing led to another as it inevitably does with us. We’d both fallen asleep after, our limbs tangled, my head on his chest. We’ve been asleep exactly thirty minutes.

I study his beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, brush a lock of long, silky hair out of his eyes and shake him gently awake.

He groans, stretches, kisses me and hauls himself up to go inside to shower.

I haul myself up to start the coffee.

About the same time the smell of fresh-brewed coffee has my salivary glands pumping, my cell phone rings.

The caller ID displays a number and area code I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Anna?”

“Culebra?” I almost drop the coffee mug in my hand. My Mexican shape-shifting friend has never called me. Never. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize the number or that I blurt stupidly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling you.”

“It’s four thirty in the morning.”

“Were you asleep? You don’t sound like you were sleeping.”

“No. Happens that I wasn’t asleep. But it’s still four thirty in the morning. What’s going on?”

“Can you come to TJ?”

“You mean to Beso de la Muerte?”

“No. I’ll tell you where to meet me.”

It could be the lack of coffee, or the shock of having him call me, or the fact that it ’s four thirty. For whatever reason, my brain seems incapable of forming an intelligent answer.

Culebra waits a second before barking impatiently, “Anna. Wake up. I want to see you. Are you coming or not?”

I rouse myself with a mental thump to the head. “Yes. I’ll come. What’s this about?”

Lance comes out of the bathroom. He raises a questioning eyebrow at seeing me on the phone but takes my mug, pours coffee for both of us and hands mine back.

He’s naked and smells of soap and shampoo and my thoughts drift to wondering just how much time we have before he has to go and what might happen if I follow him back into the bedroom . . .

“Goddamn it, Anna.” Culebra’s ire is escalating. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Lance moves back into the bedroom. Not fucking, which is what I’d like to be doing. The bedroom door closes and the vapor lock in my brain releases. “I’m here, I’m here. Where do you want to meet?”

“I told you. Downtown Tijuana.”

“TJ? Why?”

A pause. Then a noisy, impatient exhalation. “I have my reasons. Can you come?”

My turn to pause, impulse to grill him strong. But Culebra never asks favors. This must be important. I relent.

“Where?”

“Thirty-four Avenido Revolucion .In an hour?”

Crap. “Have to make it three. I’m not in San Diego.”

“Where are you?” Then he laughs. “Let me guess. Malibu with that muscle-bound model. Am I right?”

There’s no condemnation or sarcasm in his tone. If anything, he sounds pleased. “With Lance, yes.”

“Okay. I have some things to attend to. I planned to do them after we met, but I’ll take care of them before. Just don’t get sidetracked.

I’ll be waiting.”

He disconnects.

Lance is back, dressed. Too bad. No sidetracking now. He pours his coffee into a travel mug and leans down to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “Who was that?”

“Culebra.”

“At this time of morning?”

I shake my head. “Don’t have a clue what’s up, but he wants to meet me.”

Lance scoops his keys and wallet from the counter. “Have to go. Will I see you tonight?”

“Can you come to my place?”

He smiles and I’m suddenly counting the hours.

“I’ll be there. Lock up when you go.”

I see him to the door and wave him off. It’s a small, comforting gesture, waving a lover good-bye in the morning. Normal. Human.

I like the feeling.

I get dressed and head back for San Diego. A quick stop at the cottage to shower and change clothes and I’m on my way again. When I hit the border crossing, I sail through. It’s a little before eight on a Sunday morning. Too early for most tourists to be entering Mexico but the line coming back stretches a half mile.

TJ has changed a lot in the last twenty years. Especially the border crossing and the area right around it. Where there was nothing but bad road and vendors selling pottery and junk, there is now a mall. High-end stores, air-conditioning, trendy restaurants.

But go on into town, follow Avenido Revolucion to the end, which is where the address Culebra gave me is located, and you’re back in the TJ of my youth. My mom hated coming here, but out-of-town visitors always insisted on seeing the real Tijuana.

Of course my family never made it back thisfar. Back through narrow streets lined with bars and brothels, a few dicey eating places and shops filled with fake turquoise jewelry and authenticMayan pottery. Evidently the Ma yans had forged a trade agreement with China.

This is where the shows were, the infamous animal acts. Used to draw a lot of tourists until an attempt was made to shut them down. From the looks of the signs above the bars, the attempt failed.

I haven’t been here in years. Memories flood back. As a teenager, armed with fake IDs and a wad of cash, my friends and I would sneak across the border for cheap booze and adventure. I was never afraid. Stupid, naive, but never afraid. When your brother is run over by a drunk on his way to a college class, your perspective on danger changes.

The bar where I’m to meet Culebra makes me wish I’d driven the car David and I use for work, a Ford Crown Vic, instead of my Jag.

I’m afraid if I park out in front of this dive, I’ll return to a stripped hulk. What was Culebra thinking?

As soon as I pull up, a boy of about twelve steps from inside the bar.

“Are you Senorita Strong?” he asks in heavily accented English.

He’s about fourteen, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair that curls like a comma in the middle of his forehead. He projects an air of hard independence. Hard earned, too, I suspect, looking around at the surroundings. He’s wearing clean but well-worn jeans and a red Harvard sweatshirt.

I nod.

He holds out his hand. “Twenty bucks and I’ll watch your car.”

Must be Harvard Business School. I pull out my wallet and hand him a ten. “You get the other ten when I get back and my car is in one piece.”

He accepts the bill and strolls over to lean against the passenger side door. “He’s in the back room. Go straight through.”

Reluctantly, I turn away from the car. My only consolation is that if I come back and something has happened, David has a friend with a good body shop.

Loud, grinding strip music suddenly starts up from inside. I push through the double swinging doors and the music intensifies. Bad sound system, like a seventies boom box, exaggerates the bass and warbles the treble. It might as well be amplified through tin. The smell of stale beer and overripe male is strong enough to wrinkle my nose.

I forget the smell and the bad music, though, when I look around the dingy interior and see what’s going on.

Ten men in various states of inebriation slouch around a raised platform. A woman, a hard thirtysomething, struts in front of them.

Grinning, leering. She’s dressed in a halter top, breasts barely contained. And a miniskirt. She’s wearing no underwear under the skirt. It’s evident with every calculated step.

Behind her, there’s a girl and a burro. She looks about twelve. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hands and voice are busy, coaxing the burro. Readying it for the performance.

My stomach lurches and I look away.

I think I’m going to be sick. Right after I kill Culebra.