Retribution (4 page)
But stronger still is the urge to break the neck of the woman scooping scattered dollar bills and pesos from the stage. When she’s finished, she says something in Spanish and tosses a dollar to the girl before disappearing into the back.
The girl is brushing the burro, crooning softly, ignoring the crumpled bill at her feet. She’s pretty in the Spanish/ Native American, dark-haired, dark-eyed way. She’s slender, small-boned. Her skin has an unhealthy pallor. She spends too much time in this dump.
I fish my wallet out of my bag. I have two hundred dollars in twenties. I give it all to her. “Take the rest of the day off.”
She looks at the money, then up at me. Her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes hold neither warmth nor interest. She folds the bills out of my hand, slips them into the halter, and resumes grooming the burro.
That won’t alter her situation, Anna. I hope you didn’t think it would.
Culebra’s tone is sad and disapproving.
Of course I didn’t think it would, I’m tempted to snap back. But a part of me knows that’s a lie. I was hoping it might alter her situation for at least a day. That she would take the money and go shopping or to a movie, do anything a normal sixteen-year-old girl would do on a Sunday afternoon.
Instead, there’s a group of American teenagers, boys about seventeen years old, pushing through the doors, pointing with leering grins to the girl on stage.
My last glimpse of the girl is that she’s grinning back.
CULEBRA IS APOLOGIZING, AGAIN.
We’re settled in a booth in a café across from the bar. I can’t get that last image of the girl out of my head.
It’s all she’s ever known, Anna. She lives in a house, a real house, and provides food for her family. She has a chance to go to school . . .
God. I don’t bother to dignify that with anything other than a snort.
Don’t bullshit me, Culebra. She’s not ever going to school.
Don’t bullshit me, Culebra. She’s not ever going to school.
I shrug out of my jacket and cast a glance around the café. While it is much cleaner and brighter than the bar, it does nothing to improve my mood. I slouch down on the bench.
“I hate it here. Why aren’t we in Beso de la Muerte?”
Culebra’s expression shifts to a look strange for him. Excited. Secretive.
“What’s going on?”
He leans toward me across the table. “I’m going away for a while.”
“Going away? Where?”
“I can’t tell you. Not now.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I can’t tell you that, either.”
He says it almost gleefully. Strange behavior for a shape-shifter whose expression normally spans the gamut from subdued to restrained.
So, I repeat, more forcefully this time, “What’s going on?”
He fidgets, not meeting my eyes, sending off a gust of impatience. “I just need to get away for a while. I wanted to tell you personally.”
“So why not tell me this on the phone or at Beso? Why drag me to this dump? There’s got to be more.”
He folds his hands and leans toward me again. “Sandra is going to be watching the bar for me.”
“Sandra?” I sit up straight. “She’s back?”
The last time I saw Sandra was four months ago, right after she won her battle against Avery. Avery, my Avery, the one I fought and staked only to find out he hadn’t died after all. He used powerful black magic to take over Sandra’s body and will. In a fight that almost killed her, Sandra accomplished what I had not. She sent Avery to hell, for real this time.
“She told me she would never come back.”
“She came because I asked her.”
“Why did you ask her?”
“I needed someone to watch the bar.”
My stomach is contracting into a barbed-wire ball of aggravation. This is like talking to a three-year-old. “Sandra turned down my offer to take over Avery’s estate. She said she was returning to her home to be with her own kind. Her pack. Now, suddenly, she’s here tending bar? You couldn’t think of anyone else? What about all your human employees? What about me?” It comes out a petulant howl of protest.
Culebra is in my head. I don’t care. I want him there. I want him to know that I’m more than a
little
upset that he didn’t think I would have done him this favor. Instead, he called on a stranger.
little
upset that he didn’t think I would have done him this favor. Instead, he called on a stranger.
I’m sorry, Anna. You have your own business to run. I didn’t think you’d have time—
How long are you going to be gone?
I’m not sure. Two weeks, maybe.
I start to slide out of the booth. “Have a good time.”
“Anna, wait.”
He holds out a hand to stop me.
“Why? Are you going to tell me the reason you brought me to this shit hole?”
“I did.”
“No. You didn’t. You didn’t tell me a fucking thing you couldn’t have told me on the phone.”
He glances to the papers on the seat beside him. There’s a map on top. He shuffles them together so the map is hidden in the middle.
“I didn’t want you to be surprised if you went to Beso de la Muerte and found me gone and Sandra there. That’s all.”
Bullshit.
If that was it, he could have met me in Beso de la Muerte.
He picks that thought out of the ether. “Sandra is uncomfortable with seeing you. She asked if you might stay away until I get back.”
It’s the aha moment I’ve been waiting for. “Sandra doesn’t want to see me? That’s why we’re here?”
He drops his eyes.
“Why would she not want to see me?”
He looks up at me again. “She hasn’t gotten over what happened at Avery’s.”
“Wait a minute. She blames me for that?”
“It’s not rational. I know.
She
knows. But she lost Tamara. It’s complicated.”
She
knows. But she lost Tamara. It’s complicated.”
No. It isn’t. I’m staring at Culebra, waiting for him to say something else. Something that makes sense. Something like Tamara was going to kill us both and her death was self-defense.
But he doesn’t. And his mind is closed.
Guess I’ll have to get answers from Sandra.
No. Please, Anna. Honor her wishes. Honor my wishes.
I stare at him.
You’re actually asking me to stay away until you get back?
You’re actually asking me to stay away until you get back?
Yes.
He’s not looking at me. I feel agitation, it’s emanating from him like heat from fire. His lined face is creased with worry. It tempers my aggravation. I love Culebra like family. I put a hand over his.
Tell me what’s wrong.
Tell me what’s wrong.
He pulls his hand back and smoothes the concern from his face. In its place is a frown of exasperation.
What’s wrong is that I’ve asked you to do a simple thing. You fight me as you do anyone who will not cater to your whims. It’s unfair, Anna, and insulting.
What’s wrong is that I’ve asked you to do a simple thing. You fight me as you do anyone who will not cater to your whims. It’s unfair, Anna, and insulting.
The vehemence behind his words stuns me. The rebuke is unfair and insulting. Face hot, I snatch up my jacket and slide to the end of the booth. Hesitate as I wait for him to stop me.
He doesn’t. He makes no move to stop me. He doesn’t look up or even call a good-bye as I walk away.
The kid is still leaning against my car when I cross the road and the music has started up again in the bar. I shove the ten at him. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
I don’t know where I’m going until I’m back behind the wheel of my car and heading out of TJ. Culebra’s eva siveness about the why and where of this trip distresses me. What distresses me even more is the idea that Sandra holds Tamara’s death against me. I have a right to set her straight.
I don’t care if she wants to see me or not. Culebra is off to catch a plane, winging his way to some mysterious destination. How is he going to stop me?
Fuck it. I have nothing better to do today. I’m going to see Sandra.
CHAPTER 5
E
VEN TO THE SUPERNATURAL COMMUNITY, BESO de la Muerte is a mystery. It takes me almost as much time to reach it from Tijuana as it does from San Diego, mostly because it’s forty miles of bad desert road. The town is not on any map, and if a mortal happened to ignore the inhospitable surroundings and take the unmarked turn off from the main highway, it would not be long before he realized he had made a mistake and quickly head back.
VEN TO THE SUPERNATURAL COMMUNITY, BESO de la Muerte is a mystery. It takes me almost as much time to reach it from Tijuana as it does from San Diego, mostly because it’s forty miles of bad desert road. The town is not on any map, and if a mortal happened to ignore the inhospitable surroundings and take the unmarked turn off from the main highway, it would not be long before he realized he had made a mistake and quickly head back.
He would not be able to articulate
why
he knew he had made a mistake. He would simply know that he had.
why
he knew he had made a mistake. He would simply know that he had.
With one exception. If he is a mortal coming to Beso de la Muerte to be a host.
Culebra has been the sole proprietor of this ghost town turned supernatural hangout for as long as anyone can remember.
The first time I came here I was tracking down the vamp who turned me. I was hunting him because I thought he had kidnapped my partner, David, and burned down my house. Turns out, I was wrong. Avery had done those things. Just as he had laid the false trail that led me to Beso de la Muerte in the first place.
The one good thing that came from the whole debacle was meeting Culebra. I need human blood to survive. Culebra offers humans with an inclination for adventure the opportunity to make money as well as experience the best sex imaginable while providing that blood. He protects both vampires and their human hosts. Keeps vampires off the street and off the radar of those who would hunt us. No bodies left suspiciously drained of blood to attract unwanted attention.
The system works.
More important, Culebra became my friend.
At least, I thought he had become a friend.
I push the biting sting of his parting remarks from my head. Along with the guilt that I’m doing exactly what he asked me not to. A whiny little voice justifies it. Don’t I have as much right to be in Beso de la Muerte as Sandra?
It’s not yet eleven o’clock in the morning. Not surprisingly, there are only two cars parked in front of Culebra’s bar when I pull up. Most of the action takes place after dark. The cars are a big Cadillac SUV and a silver Porsche Boxster. I park behind the Cadillac and send out a mental probe.
I detect three vampires and one human.
The human must be Sandra. She’s a werewolf, but werewolves in human form do not give off a supernatural psychic signature. Two of the vampires are bemoaning the fact that they came all the way from L.A. and are starving and there’s no one here to eat. The third vampire is emitting no telepathic signal at all.
I push through the double swinging doors.
The two vamps griping about the lack of service are sitting at a table in the middle of the room. They each have a beer in front of them. They are young, dressed in open-neck polos and jeans. Both are male, both have carefully coiffed hair and both have an L.A. chic look about them. Probably belong to the Boxster. They look up expectantly when I walk in, then wilt in disappointment when they realize I will not be on the menu.
Newly made, I’d guess, judging from the clumsy way they try to shield their thoughts from me.
The third vampire is at the bar. His back is to me but I sense his reaction when he recognizes me. Because he does recognize me. Immediately. His back becomes rigid. His thoughts draw in on themselves like a noose tightening around a neck.
He doesn’t turn around.
Williams.
For an instant,
I’m
tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. He’s the last person I want to see.
I’m
tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. He’s the last person I want to see.
Sandra, however, is a different story. She’s the reason I’m here. If I can ignore Williams’ phone calls, I can ignore him in person, too.
Sandra is arranging glasses against the back of the bar. When she hears the door, she turns and without looking up, says, “Take any table—”
She raises her eyes and the words die in her throat. She still has a glass in her hand. It remains suspended in air for the second it takes her to replace a look of irritation with one of resignation. She sighs and places the glass on the bar. While the words she speaks are, “Hello, Anna,” her attitude says, “Fuck.”
She looks good. She’s tall and slim and has eyes that aren’t quite green and aren’t quite blue, but flash of both. Her dark hair has grown since I last saw her, it skims her shoulders. Her skin is sun-kissed and glowing. She looks healthy. She looks alive.
What she doesn’t look is happy to see me.
“Hello, Sandra.”
I step up to the bar and place both my hands flat on its surface. I know why she’s reacting the way she is. Culebra made that clear. It’s the reason I came.
For the moment, though, the more urgent problem is the vamp to my left. His negativity flares, burning into my subconscious, demanding response.
So much for ignoring him. Without turning, I say, “Hello, Williams.”
The negativity is momentarily suppressed by a flicker of satisfaction. He was waiting for me.
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