The Becoming

Or was it this wall?

I turn to the fireplace. There's a massive stone hearth with a raised platform in front and storage areas for wood on either side. The storage areas are both well over six feet tall and the one on the right is stacked floor to top with neatly sawed, fragrant logs of cedar and pine. The one on the left is only half full, though. And when I peer at it closely, a faint outline presents itself.

But if this is the door, how to get in? Avery certainly didn't have time to remove all these logs last night, then replace them when he came back. I heard the door close and he moved immediately away.

There must be a hidden catch.

I take a step closer. The mantel is a solid slab of heavy dark wood. I run my fingers over the surface, above and below, not knowing what I'm searching for, but not feeling anything that might activate a door either. Stepping back again, I look up at two big brass sconces on either side of the hearth. Could this be the way in?

I reach up for the one on the left. I tug, pull, twist.

Nothing.

I move to the opposite end. This time, when I pull there is a grinding sound, like a gear mechanism springing to life. I jump back and watch as the left side of the fireplace moves in on itself, the entire wall disappearing into a passage that stretches into a black void in front of me.

I've found the way into Avery's secret room.

I have to wait a moment, to let my eyes adjust from the bright sun-filled bedroom to the darkness of the passageway. When my vampire vision takes over, I take a step inside.

There's a long, wooden staircase that looks to descend straight down, almost like a ladder. The staircase is narrow, not more than two feet wide. One wall is stone, the outside wall of the house probably, the other, wood. There is a handrail, which I grip tightly as I start down. I can't see to the bottom. I can't hear anything, either. There's an eerie stillness that sends an involuntary shiver up my spine.

There must be a hundred steps. When I touch ground I'm standing on a dirt floor. The musk smell of decaying vegetation tells me that I'm deep underground. Avery has built himself an earthen fortress.

I spot a door ahead of me about fifty feet from the bottom of the stairs. I know it won't be locked. Avery would not expect anyone to find this place without him. And I'm right. The door yields under my touch.

It's a large room, maybe twenty by thirty, stacked with wooden crates on one wall, shelving against another. There is a switch to the right of the door. I throw it and the room jumps into stark relief. The shelves are strewn with pieces of pottery, vases, items of gold and silver that glitter despite the gloom of a dim subterranean light—all that's needed with vampire vision.

I don't know much about art, but I recognize the magnificence of what I see in front me. The graceful beauty of ancient Chinese porcelains, the intricate scrollwork of Egyptian antiquities, the simple magnificence of Mayan pottery and jewelry, I've discovered the source of Avery's wealth. Accumulated across the centuries, I imagine, doled out piece by piece when the need arises. I can't tell what's in the crates, but I'd be willing to bet it's more of the same. The contents of this room could fill a small museum—or keep one immortal living in splendor forever.

There's nothing incriminating here, not really. Of course I have no way of knowing how he came by such treasure. Being vampire, I'm sure it might not be all on the up and up. But what great fortune, human or vampire, was ever accumulated without the hint of impropriety? I've found nothing to justify another invasion of Avery's privacy. I've once again thought the worst of him and been mistaken.

Casper was right. My instincts are certainly off. Well, at least I can make this right. I can keep Avery from finding out about my foray into his underground vault. It won't be easy keeping it out of my thoughts, but I will do it. I don't want to risk losing him because of another vague, unsubstantiated suspicion.

What I need to do now is focus, concentrate on finding David. I'm going to have to start all over. I'll leave for Beso de la Muerte tonight. Avery won't like it, but he'll have to accept it.

As I make my way across the floor towards the door, I notice for the first time that there is something else in the room. A bundle, deep in the shadows, that looks like a roll of carpet propped lengthwise against the third wall.

Probably an ancient Persian rug plucked from the castle of a king.

I hardly give it another glance—at first.

But then—

A tiny movement.

Did I imagine it?

Eyes riveted on the carpet, I find myself propelled toward it. Chilling, black silence envelops me in doomed foreboding.

I prepare myself for the worse.

I kneel down and peel back a corner, shaking so badly I have to grasp the rug with both hands.

I think I know. I think I'm ready.

But the horror of what I see is more terrible than anything I imagine.

I've found David.

Bound and gagged and lying still as death on that dirt floor.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I hear a moan, deep and full of despair. It takes me a moment to realize it's my own voice, my own despair. I'm still shaking. I can't even hold myself upright, but slump against David's side, my arms around him, my face pressed against his. How could this have happened? How could I have let this happen?

How could Avery do this to me?

It is at that moment that I feel it.

A slight movement in my arms, a turn of the head, a shallow intake of breath.

I fear it's my imagination. I pull back, put my ear to his chest. Listen.

A faint heartbeat.

He's not dead.

Ripping at the carpet, I pull it away, ease the constriction around his chest. He moans a little, but his eyes remain shut, his breathing labored. I hold his head in my hands and shake it gently from side to side.

"Come on David. Open those beautiful eyes. Talk to me."

There's no response. He's deep in some sort of coma. Drug induced maybe. Or—

I move his head slightly. I find what I expect. Avery has fed from David.

There are two marks at his jugular. Not small pinpricks like Dena's, but ugly, gaping wounds made by someone in a feeding frenzy.

Someone not caring that he's leaving marks because he knows his victim will never be found.

Avery has fed from David.

Anger, like a scalding iron, burns so deep in my gut I have to force it back and out of my thoughts. Revenge will come later. First and foremost, I must get David to safety. With a jolt, I realize I know nothing about how feeding affects the human physiology. Will David recover on his own? Does he need a transfusion? Can I risk taking him to a hospital?

I don't have the answer to any of those questions. The only person I could ask is the last person I can. Gathering David in my arms, I lift him like a doll and carry him up the stairs. I lay him out on Avery's bed and return to the room. Rolling the carpet back up, I prop it against the wall the way I found it. If Avery should return while I'm gone, at first glance the room will look just as he left it.

Then I set about putting the bookcase in order. I have no idea how the books were arranged, stupid of me not to have noticed, but Avery is an organized man and I have to imagine he would sort his books by topic. I re-shelve the medical books together, then fiction, then general nonfiction. If he asks about it, I'll tell him Dena was dusting in here and I interrupted her before she could finish so I put the books back myself.

Lame. But it's all I can come up with.

Besides, Avery will have more pressing problems to deal with than his disrupted bookcase.

Grimly, I take a last look around the room. The fireplace door is shut, the sconce back in its upright position. I lift David off the bed and take him downstairs and out the kitchen door to the garage. I lay him in the back seat of the Explorer, out of sight under a blanket, and then I realize I've left my purse and cell phone inside.