Legacy

“And you called me stupid,” Tamara snaps. “It was Avery.”

“Avery?” I repeat, loading the word with as much scorn as I possibly can. “You mean the Avery I staked during the fight that almost killed me? The Avery that dissolved into dust and blew away on a puff of air? That Avery?”

That’s what I say to Tamara. Inside my head, though, a sudden, startling kernel of doubt turns my thoughts in a disturbing direction. When Sandra looked at me, when she spoke Avery’s words, she looked and sounded different. That had to be part of the spell, though, right? If possession was even remotely possible, Williams or Frey would have said something.

“Do you get it now?” Tamara says after a moment. “Avery has taken over Sandra’s body. He’s doing it to get back at you. He hates you so much he’ll do anything, even kill Sandra to do it.”

No. I shake off the doubt. It’s not possible. “Avery is dead.” It’s unequivocal. “I killed him. I thought Sandra was psychotic. She’s delusional as well. So are you if you believe what she’s telling you. We’re almost at my partner’s cabin. I’ll drive back with him. You want to take a message to Sandra? How about this? I don’t want to see either of you ever again. If I do, I’ll kill you both.”

CHAPTER 42

AMARA STARTS TO SAY SOMETHING, BUT I CUT her off. “I know what Sandra is doing. She’s getting revenge because her cheating husband was getting ready to dump her ass. It’s the only thing that makes sense. How she found out about Avery and me in such detail, I don’t know. Maybe she’s a voyeur and she was there that night watching us. Maybe that’s how she gets her rocks off. What I do know is that possession isn’t possible. I staked Avery and he didn’t disappear or fly away or turn into a rat. He dissolved into dust. Into dust.”

“You don’t understand,” Tamara says.

The vibe she’s sending off is hostile, anxious and powerful as a bad smell.

It triggers defense mechanisms of my own. If she tries anything, the vampire A

Tamara grows quiet. We’re approaching the turnoff that takes us off the highway, into the woods. For the next fifteen minutes we bounce along on a dirt road. Then, dead ahead is the last turnoff to David’s cabin. It’s not marked, so I drop my hands, touch Tamara’s shoulder and point to the left. She maneuvers the Harley smoothly into the turn. I had braced myself because I wasn’t sure she would. I figured she might take it at breakneck speed, bank sharply and dump me off the bike.

The dirt road drops off after about half a mile and becomes hard-packed gravel. Tamara downshifts and reduces speed. She can’t see the cabin. It’s set back about a mile and completely hidden in the pines. I remember how I felt when I saw it for the first time. Tamara is in for a surprise.

I point to the left again, to a paved driveway. She takes it, and I wait for her reaction when we round the last bend and the cabin comes into view.

Predictably, her shoulders jump. If I could see her face, I’m sure the eyes would be big and the mouth agape.

The “cabin” is a two-story affair, about twelve rooms and three thousand square feet. It’s made of pine, stained a color close to that of a setting sun—or blood. David’s father built it in the early seventies, right after the birth of his son, from logs harvested from their own land. Then David invested a lot of money during his football years to upgrade and renovate the place. There are two big stone chimneys, one at each end, and a wraparound porch in front. The windows are all open, and sheer curtains move with the breeze.

Tamara stops the bike in front and dismounts. “Who owns this place?” she asks.

I swing off the back and pull the cap off my head. “A friend.”

I start away from the bike, but Tamara puts a hand on my arm. “This isn’t over.” It’s spoken quietly, but the harshness of the threat comes through.

I shake off her hand. She’s probably right. The next time I face Sandra, though, it will be on my terms.

I head toward the front door but sounds from the back stop me: the rhythmic swish of an ax through the air and the crack as it hits wood. I switch directions.

David is splitting logs in a clearing behind the cabin. He’s bare chested, sweaty and oblivious to our approach. Earbuds attached to an iPod at his waist explain why. I can hear the music. I could hear the music even without vampire hearing. He’s got the volume turned way up. He’s listening to Incubus, one of his favorite alternative/rock/trash/whatever groups.

He’s really gotta be depressed.

“That’s your friend?”

I turn to look at her. Tamara is staring, her mouth open. “Why are you still here?”

She doesn’t answer, which makes me take another look at David. I guess I’ve known him for so long, I’ve become oblivious to how he must appear to other women. He’s a big guy, hard muscled, broad shouldered, lean. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, te

And attacking is what he’s doing. I bet I know who he’s thinking about.

Tamara is still staring. She’s making no move to leave, so I tell her to stay here while I get his attention. No sense scaring the shit out of him and maybe getting bashed in the head in the process.

I cross around in front. He’s so engrossed in the work and lost in the music I realize calling out to him isn’t going to do it. I wave my hands and jump up and down until he catches the movement and looks my way.

His face turns red. He holds the ax in front of him like a weapon. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too. Want to put the ax down so we can talk?”

He’s still glaring when Tamara moves to join me. She’s gri

Now it’s my turn to stare—at Tamara. “You know who he is?”

David switches his gaze from me to Tamara. Curiosity softens the anger. The ax falls to his side and he pulls the earphones from his head. “And you are?”

She thrusts out her hand and takes a step toward him. “Name’s Tamara. People call me Tammy. I brought A

I’m listening to this openmouthed. People call me Tammy? That’s like calling a tiger “pussy.”

David is smiling. He takes Tamara’s hand and shakes it. “Football was another lifetime ago. I hardly think about it anymore.”

“No way,” Tamara says. “You were a great player. If you hadn’t gotten hit in that Giants game and hurt your knee, you’d still be playing. It was a cheap shot, and Rutherford should have been thrown out of the league.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing and seeing. Talking to David, Tamara’s demeanor softens and damn, if she doesn’t even look different. Prettier, somehow, more feminine. Christ, is this another spell? Here I am listening to a muscle-bound Amazon, a werewolf, no less (and one I would have sworn had a lesbian thing for Sandra), gushing over a muscle-bound, strictly heterosexual ex-jock whose chest is starting to swell like an overinflated i

“You know how I got hurt?” David asks, clearly flattered that she does.

That’s it. I step between them. “Hey. I came up here for a reason, and I don’t have all day. You two can continue this trip down memory lane another time. David, we have to talk.”