Текст книги "Chosen"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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CHAPTER 5

Harris drops me off at the office. Our entire conversation on the thirty-five-minute ride consisted of Harris asking me if I wanted to go to the office or if he should take me home.

It was a long thirty-five minutes.

At last I’m in the Jag and on the way to the cottage, away from Black’s strange influence and Harris’ annoying air of disapproval. I can think rationally about the night’s events.

The rationalityis slow to come.

How could I have been so strongly affected by Black? He was human. Not that humans aren’t capable of evil—I’ve certainly met a few. But he projectedevil. So strongly it caused a physical reaction. That’s a disturbing new twist.

Evil. A primitive word.

Why did I pick up on it? Why did I know he had spilledblood? What compelled me to want to kill him on sight?

Maybe Lance can help me figure it out. He’s been a vampire a lot longer than me—seventy years. He’s helped me through other troubling times. The last three months, we’ve gotten closer. Especially after what happened with Williams.

It’s been three months since Williams and I had a confrontation over the death of Ortiz, a vampire he loved like a son. Three months since his wife threatened me because I chose the well-being of another over her husband’s. I’ve stayed away from them both, withdrawn from the supernatural community and kept to myself. My only tie has been to Lance. And Culebra, to feed.

I’ve been living as a human. Going to work every day with David. Going to movies with Lance. Simple things. A couple of weeks ago, I even flew to France for my mother’s birthday. A feat made possible by the fact that I own a private jet—the one part of Avery’s legacy I’ve accepted for myself. Selfishly. Avery was the first vamp I met as a newly turned. Even though he ended up trying to kill me and I’d vowed to accept none of the estate he’d left me, having a jet makes travel too convenient to pass up. Especially with family in Europe. No worries about someone noticing the lack of a reflection in a dark window or why on such a long flight I didn’t eat or drink or have to go to the bathroom.

It was only a three-day visit—I didn’t want to push my luck—but it was wonderful.

I enjoy the illusion of being human.

Maybe that’s what has me upset. Tonight, Black shattered the illusion.

I pull the Jag into the garage, next to Lance’s silver Aston Martin DB9. The top is down. I run a finger over butter-soft leather when I walk past. Such a boy’s toy. Warmth still radiates off the hood—Lance must have arrived just minutes before. I slip out of the garage and hit the remote on my keychain.

The door is sliding shut when a blur catches the corner of my eye. From inside the garage, something propels itself toward me. Too fast. I’m hit broadside, thrown back. I recover, regain my balance, but not quickly enough. I feel the blade enter, just below the sternum, slash upward, scrape against bone. No pain at first. Just surprise.

Then rage.

The human Anna is gone. The vampire grabs the knife before it can strike again. I don’t know what I’m fighting. I can’t see a face, can’t get inside the head. No time to figure it out. It doesn’t matter. I turn the knife on the attacker—plunge it where it will do the most damage, yank it down. The abdomen rips apart, spilling intestines in a spray of blood.

An animal scream.

It tries to turn away.

It’s not human.

Finally, a flash of recognition. Vampire.

I grab it, pull it back. Why?

No response. My blood is on fire. Self-preservation and fury swamp restraint. I raise the knife and slash at the throat. Blood arcs, splashes across my face before my mouth closes over the wound.

I drink until I feel the last flutter of life.

I let the body fall. Watch as it shrivels into the image of an old man.

Vampire.

Lance is suddenly beside me—teeth bared and claws extended. He sees the body on the ground.

Then he looks at me. My hands clutch at my chest. Blood flows over my fingers. He knows. My blood.

He pulls me to him, rips the torn fabric of my shirt. He places his own mouth over the wound and begins to suck at it.

I groan with the pain and pleasure. Healing starts from the inside, organs repair themselves, cells regenerate. Lance’s arms are steel around me. His concentration shifts once he knows I’m all right. Blood—mine, the attacker’s– its smell and texture, a siren song. Lust replaces alarm. Need replaces concern. He lowers me to the ground.

We fumble with our clothes. We’re both in jeans. It takes too long to try to wriggle free. Zippers are ripped apart, denim shredded. When he mounts me, it’s with relief and joy.

No shared thoughts. No shared desires.

Joy.

A primal celebration. Acknowledgment that I escaped the death from which no vampire returns.

After, he raises himself up on his elbows. “What just happened?”

I run my nails down his back. “I don’t know. Right now, I don’t care.” I raise my hips and clench my thighs to push him deeper inside. “We can figure it out later. I’m not finished with you yet.”

He moans and pushes back. “I hope not.

* * *

A while later, calmer, sated, reason returns.

Lance sits up, looks around. “Maybe we’d better go inside.”

We’re on the driveway, in the shadow of the garage, but he’s right. A glance at my watch. We’ve been out here forty minutes. We can’t have made too much noise since I’ve sensed no neighbors approach to have a look. Still, we do have a body to dispose of.

We scramble up, clutching ruined clothing, air cool against bare skin.

Lance points to the mummified corpse. “What are we going to do about him?”

The knife is where I dropped it. Blood and intestines are a rusty smudge on the driveway. Lance smears dirt over the spot and picks up the knife. I grab the corpse by a desiccated arm and drag him through the gate into the backyard. When a vampire is killed by stake or fire, he turns to ash. When he’s drained, his corpse reverts to what his human age would be. If it’s twenty, he looks like a twenty-year-old, if it’s fifty, a fifty-year-old. Judging by the looks of this guy, he must have been well over one hundred.

Which adds another piece to the puzzle.

I close and lock the gate. Why would an old-soul vampire attack me?

Lance and I take time to shower, soaping off blood and dirt, losing ourselves for a few minutes longer in pleasure rather than the problem lying in the grass outside the back door. But reality can’t be shut out forever, and reluctantly, we leave the warm cocoon of the bath to get dressed and face the corpse.

Soon we’re in the backyard, steaming mugs of coffee clutched in cold hands, looking down at what’s left of my attacker. I hand my mug to Lance and bend down to riffle the guy’s clothing. Cotton long-sleeved T-shirt, black hoodie, cotton slacks, tennis shoes.

No jacket. No wallet. No ID.

“Any idea who he was?” Lance asks.

I straighten and shake my head. “Not a clue. I haven’t pissed anybody off lately. At least, not that I know of.” I glance toward the garage. “He came from inside the garage. Maybe he wanted your car?”

Lance snorts. “He’s not very smart if he was after my car. That thing has so many anti-theft devices, it does everything but blow itself up if it’s tampered with. Besides, if he was already in the garage, and you didn’t see him, why wouldn’t he just wait for you to leave?”

“Not only didn’t I see him, I didn’t sense him. Not then, not during the attack, not after, when I bled him.”

“He was shielding himself from you,” Lance says. He holds out my mug.

“Right to the end,” I reply, taking it.

Lance releases a breath. “You and David have any jobs lined up the next couple of days?”

I shake my head.

The sun is beginning to tint the sky. He squints up at it.

“Let’s take a drive,” he says.

“Where?”

“To my place in Palm Springs. We can bury the mummy in the desert along the way. We’ll spend the weekend.”

“I’ll get a sheet.”

Lance follows me inside. “And we’re taking your car.”

When I raise a questioning eyebrow, he replies, “The Jag has a bigger trunk.”

But his thoughts say, No way am I putting a rotting corpse in the Aston Martin.

* * *

The ride through the desert on an early July morning is lonely and quiet. Not many souls willing to brave temperatures already into the eighties. Having a vampire’s constitution, however, allows Lance and me to put the top down on the Jag and let the warmth of the sun bake our bones.

I’m driving. We take the 15 to 74—the scenic route on a road that hairpins back and forth as it gains elevation through the Santa Rosa Mountains. This is rattlesnake and coyote terrain. Desolate in a beautiful way.

We choose a place to turn off at a junction between the highway and an unmarked dirt road. In the fall and winter, this is a popular ATV playground. In the summer, the only visitors slither or scurry away at the sound of the car’s approach.

We drive miles into the desert, the road so well traveled the Jag has no trouble on the hardscrabble surface. Ten miles from the highway, we park. We’ll have to go on foot from this point if we want to bury our mummy friend where he’s not likely to be found when the change of season turns the desert back into a four-wheeling playground.

Lance hoists the sheet-shrouded body over his shoulder. I grab a pick and shovel, and we start toward an outcropping of rock in the distance. Up until this time, we’ve traveled in silence, enjoying the sound of the desert wind, the feel and smell of it in our faces, the guttural purr of the Jag’s engine. But after a few minutes, I feel Lance’s gentle intrusion into my head.

What should we do about this guy?

I frown. Besides bury him? I don’t know. What do you think? After all, we can’t be sure he wasn’t after your car. Maybe he’s just a thief.

A snort. If he’s been watching the house at all, he knows we’re vampire. Not too smart to try to steal from one of your own.

Maybe he was down on his luck. Saw this as an opportunity to make some real money.

Lance shakes his head. He was an old soul. Even if he hadn’t understood the concept of compound interest, he would never have gotten so desperate he’d resort to stealing. He’d seduce a human into supporting him first.

I’ve run out of excuses. Lance doesn’t follow with the logical conclusion, just lets the idea drop between us where it lays until I pick it up and put into words what we’re both thinking.

“Which means, he wasn’t a car thief at all. He was after me.”

CHAPTER 6

Saying the words out loud plunges me right back into the nightmare of Ortiz’ death and Williams’ threat. Williams is the only one I know who hates me enough to want me dead. Was this an attempt to make good on that threat?

Lance reads my thoughts. Why now? It’s been three months since the fire. And why would he send someone to do a job he’d want to do himself?

Both good questions, and ones to which I have no answers. I shrug them off and look around for a gravesite. We’re at least ten miles from the car. The wind whistles in my ears and whips my hair into my face. I want to get this over with.

“Let’s bury him here.”

Lance drops the body onto the ground and reaches for the pick.

Despite vampire strength, the rock beneath our feet doesn’t yield easily. It takes Lance and me fifteen minutes to gouge out a hole long enough and deep enough to make sure this vampire jerky treat doesn’t become some scavenger’s late night snack. No wonder the bikers wanted David and me to take care of Curly Tom. They knew it’s not easy to dispose of a body in the desert.

The effort is enough, however, to distract us from the puzzle of why I was the target.

When we’ve finished filling the hole, we top it with rocks, a subtle pyramid for our mummy. We’re covered in dust. We brush ourselves off the best we can and jog back to the car. I’d thrown a towel and a couple of bottles of water in the trunk. We sponge most of the dust off our faces and hands.

Then Lance holds his hand out for the keys. “Want me to drive?”

I toss them to him and he slips behind the wheel. “We’ll be at the house in about an hour.”

I rest my head against the seat and take in the view. It’s been three hours since we left Mission Beach. We’re about halfway to Palm Springs, winding our way through the San Bernardino National Forest. The sun is high in the sky and its heat is a salve to my spirit. I realize the attack took my mind off the subject I intended to bring up with Lance last night—the curious reaction I had to Black.

I glance over at Lance, gently probe to see what’s on his mind. He’s thinking of where he wants to take me tonight. A bar he thinks I’ll find interesting. And of friends he wants to introduce me to.

Pleasant, everyday, normal things.

I decide to wait.

* * *

In the short time I’ve known Lance, I’ve taken some things for granted. How he made his money, for instance. He’s a model. Those cheekbones and a hard body make him a natural for both print and runway work, and since the advent of the digital camera, no worries about a distorted (or nonexistent) vampire film image. He’s constantly flying off somewhere for a shoot or a show. I know enough about the fashion world to know a top model makes big bucks. Hence, the house in Malibu and this, a second home he’s often talked about but one that I’ve never seen.

We’ve taken the turn off Highway 74 onto 111—known to the locals as East Palm Canyon Drive. It’s the long, well-traveled artery that connects the various communities that make up the Palm Springs area. High-end boutiques, restaurants, resorts and country clubs pass in a seamless array on a wide highway lined with palms and oaks. A stark mountain range known as the Little San Bernardino Mountains forms a backdrop.

Even under the shimmer of a brilliant summer sun, there’s an exotic beauty to the place.

Ours is the only car we pass with the top down. Most people hunker down behind windows rolled tight and air conditioners on high, protection from the blast-oven desert heat.

Lance slows the Jag at the entrance to a gated community with a simple brick sign. Thunderbird Cove. A uniformed guard steps from his air-conditioned perch inside a stone gatehouse and approaches the Jag. He tips his hat and smiles when he recognizes Lance, and the gates swing open like the parting of the seas.

The road sign says Evening Star Drive.

This is when I begin to think there is more to Lance’s story than a good life forged by great cheekbones.

Evening Star Drive meanders back toward the mountains. Only the discreet signs on mailboxes identify private residences the size of hotels. I count twelve homes before we stop at the last—a castle that looks like it might have been transported from medieval Europe brick by brick. It climbs four stories into the sky, is topped with turrets and a widow’s walk. The only thing missing is the moat.

Lance pulls up into the driveway, fishes keys from his pocket and hits a remote. One section of a wall slides up to reveal a garage. He pulls the Jag inside and kills the engine.

“Honey,” he says, “we’re home.”

Lance leads the way toward a door at the end of a three-car bay. Beside my Jag, there’s a small vintage MG convertible in the garage. It gleams under a dust cover made of gauzy muslin.

Another boy toy.

And a lime green Prius. A hybrid? Not exactly Lance’s typical mode of transportation.

The door to the house opens before we get to it. A woman no bigger than a minute bursts through. She’s dressed in long paisley skirt and white cotton blouse knotted at the waist. Her honey-colored hair is tied back from her face with a comb. She’s barefoot and gives off a serious earth-mother vibe.

The Prius.

She squeals and envelops Lance in a hug, dancing on tiptoes to do it. “It’s so good to see you, Rick. I’ve missed you.”

Rick?

Lance is laughing and hugging back. “I’ve missed you, too, Adele.” He pushes her gently away and reaches for me. “This is Anna, my houseguest for the next few days. Anna, this is Adele. My very good friend.”

Adele blushes. Physically, she looks like she might be forty-something. Laugh lines crinkle her eyes and frame her mouth. The vibe she gives off, however, is older. I scan but detect no otherworldly presence. Doesn’t mean she’s human, though. My senses automatically spring to alert.

“Rick is too kind,” she says. “I’m the housekeeper. Anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She’s looking at me with keen eyes. Before I can react, she’s raised a hand to touch my face. “Very good bone structure. Are you a model, too?”

“She could be,” Lance answers, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But what she does is much more exciting. She’s a bounty hunter.”

Adele’s eyes widen. “Like Dog? I watch his program all the time on TV.”

Lance moves us toward the door. “Yep. She catches the bad guys just like Dog.”

“Uh—not exactly.” The image of Adele thinking me a female Dog spouting Jesus and counseling skips on clean living is too bizarre. And what would that make David? His tart-tongued, bleach-blond wife?

Now that’san image.

The current passing between Lance (or is it Rick?) and this tiny woman has my head swimming. She’s emitting a fiercely protective air toward him. There’s a story here, and I can’t wait to hear it.

Lance smiles down at me. You will.

Adele shepherds us through the entryway and into a kitchen the size of Rhode Island. We keep walking—through a dining room bigger than the entire first floor of my cottage and a living room with glass walls that look out over a swimming pool, and finally, she opens another door and gestures us inside.

“I know you must be tired from the drive. I have drinks waiting for you on the side bar. Rick, you have several messages on the desk. The boys are in town for the weekend. They’re having a party tonight at Melvyn’s.” She cocks her head to the side and looks me up and down. “I do hope you brought evening clothes, Anna.”

Another abrupt change of subject that knocks me off kilter. She’s like a train leaving a station and I have to run alongside to keep up. “Evening clothes?” Except for the jeans I have on, all I brought were two pairs of shorts and a couple of T-shirts.

Adele plunges ahead with an airy wave of a hand. “No matter. You’re what—a size four? I’ll call Stephen. Luckily, you look like an Armani type—nice shoulders, narrow waist. I’ll have him bring some things for you to try. Now, what’s your shoe size? Seven and a half? Eight? I’ll have him bring an assortment of Jimmy Choos—or would you prefer Blahnik?”

Lance moves to Adele’s side, taking her arm and turning her toward the door. “You choose. Anna and I are going to wash the road dust out of our throats and relax a while before I return any calls. See that we’re not disturbed, will you?”

Adele smiles and nods and leaves us with a bemused parting glance. Lance closes the door, turns an imaginary lock and nails an imaginary board over it before turning to me, swiping a hand across his forehead. “Whew. Alone at last.”

I hardly know which question to ask first. I settle on, “Who the hell is Rick?”

Lance smiles and moves to stand in front of a mahogany-framed fireplace. He looks at me, arms crossed over his chest. With hurricane Adele gone, I have my first opportunity to look around the room. It’s dark-paneled, full of heavy, overstuffed leather furniture, one huge desk and a fireplace with a coat of arms over the mantel.

Lance hasn’t moved. Since he seems to be making a point of something, and that something must be near or on the fireplace, I step forward for a closer look. He glances over and up.

The coat of arms?

I’m about to remind him how much I hate games when I’m rewarded with a thumb jab.

Okay, the coat of arms.

It’s a huge crest, a gryphon or phoenix in the center surrounded by three arrows and a Latin inscription. The only word I recognize is a name—DeFontaine.

“I don’t understand. Whose house is this?”

“It’s mine.”

“DeFontaine? That’s not your name.” I frown. “Is it?”

Lance laughs. “You didn’t really think my name was Lance Turner, did you?”

His laughter ignites a spark of irritation. “Why the hell wouldn’t I believe your name was Lance Turner?”

The tone of my voice squelches his amusement. He backtracks with a quick, “That was stupid. You wouldn’t have any way of knowing Lance is a professional name. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.” He winces. “My real name is Broderick Phillipe DeFontaine. Any doubt now why I don’t use it professionally?”

He lets his voice drop, waiting for the recognition to hit.

It does. It would to anyone who has been around for the last hundred years or so. “DeFontaine? The South African diamond people?”

A nod.

“You’re a member of the DeFontaine family.” Now I’m not only startled, I’m shocked.

Another nod.

I take a closer look around the room—at the sumptuous appointments, the art in gilded frames, the leather-bound books lining the walls. Even the smell of the room is subtle but rich. A blend of citrus potpourri and old money.

Jesus. Did I know this guy at all?

I turn my gaze back on Lance. I feel as if I’m seeing him—Lance or Rick, short for Broderick, I assume—for the first time.

I know a lot of rich people—and rich vampires. Rich, however, doesn’t begin to describe the net worth of a family that, until recently, controlled the diamond business. And had for hundreds of years.

“I don’t know how to feel about this.”

Lance is smart enough to remain silent. He shows that he knows me a hell of a lot better than I do him. He’s reading the confusion that could easily shift to anger with the wrong prompting, the wrong word, so he does nothing. He stands very still and waits for me to come to my own conclusions.

Part of me feels he should have told me who he was sooner. Part of me wonders truthfully if it makes a difference. Lance or Rick, this is the man who healed me, then trekked across ten miles of desert to help me bury the vampire who attacked me.

“Jesus.” This time I say it out loud. “I can’t wait to see what you get me for my birthday.”

Lance’s laugh is a mixture of relief and delight. In two steps, he’s across the room and at my side.

I hold up my hands and gently push at his chest. “Whoa, there, cowboy. Not so fast. I have a shitload of questions.”

He takes a step back. “Ask away.”

Adele mentioned drinks on the sideboard. A glance around and I spy a bar set up. A cooler, a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket, red wine and glasses. “Any beer in that cooler?”

He’s there and back faster than my eyes can follow with two open bottles of Corona and a plate of lime slices. He holds one of the bottles out to me and waves me toward the couch.

I take the beer, squeeze a lime slice through the neck of the bottle and take a swig, debating which existence to question first—past or present, human or vampire. I sink into plush couch cushions, arrange myself so I can see Lance, watch him, read his expressions, and jump in.