Retribution

His expression is somber as he works. He’s been a deputy under Williams for as long as I ’ve known him, but there’s more to their relationship. I don’t understand it and I have no desire to. Ortiz is genuinely nice while Williams is decidedly not.

Finally, Williams separates one sheet from the stack and Ortiz, two. They look at one another.

Here’s one.

And two others.

They’re showing each other the pictures they’ve chosen from the file. The picture Williams is holding is of the dead woman we found across the street. She looks much better alive.

“Who are the other two?” I ask.

Ortiz reaches for a slim leather folder on the table in front of him. He retrieves two artist ’s sketches from inside. He holds the sketches next to the photos from Burke’s files, turns them around so I can see.

The resemblance between sketch and photo are remarkable in both cases.

Williams turns to me. “Remember the men who reported being attacked by women who cut them for their blood?”

“These are the women?”

“You tell me. These sketches were made from the victims’ descriptions.”

I take the photos and sketches and lay them out on the table for a closer look. “I’m sold. Is this enough to get a warrant?”

Williams shakes his head. “A warrant for what? We still don’t know what co

“That’s not enough?”

He fans the thick file of photos. “Not when there are a hundred other women here who don’t seem to have gotten themselves into trouble.”

I pick up the two photos and look to Ortiz. “Can I take these?”

Ortiz nods. He makes a note of the names and addresses printed on the backs of the photos and slips the rest of Burke ’s file and the sketches back into his folder. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Coronado,” I reply. “To the address I found in Burke’s file. If I’m lucky, it’s hers. After I take care of her, I’ll visit these two.”

Ortiz frowns. “You’re going to Burke’s alone?”

I’m afraid Williams is going to insist on coming with me. I jump in before he can.

“It’s better if I do. If I get caught, neither of you should be involved. Someone has to take care of Culebra and Frey. This is the address I found in her file at the warehouse.” I send it to him telepathically, adding, “If you don’t hear from me in two hours, then you can send the cavalry.”

“I will.” Ortiz’ dark eyes flash. He writes the address in a notepad and slips it into his pocket. “Be careful, A

Williams, for once, doesn’t say anything.

CHAPTER 18

THE ADDRESS I GAVE ORTIZ, THE ADDRESS ON J AVENUE I took from a utility bill in Burke ’s office, is across the bay in Coronado. I can’t even claim gut instinct that it belongs to Burke. All I can do is hope it ’s hers. If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted more precious minutes of Culebra’s life.

It’s a quick trip across the bridge and straight down Fourth Avenue to J. The neighborhood is old money—wooden shingles, tile roofs.

Multistoried houses with big yards and picket fences.

Not what I expected. I expected a black magic woman to live in seclusion behind high brick walls covered with poison ivy.

Doubt starts gnawing a hole in instinct.

The street is dead quiet in the early morning hours. I park half a block from the address and work my way on foot to the alleyway that runs behind each house. When I get to the right house, I leap the fence and crouch down, watching, listening.

I’ve got my gun in my hand. Ready this time. But I know it’s too much to hope that Burke will pass by a window. Too much to hope I’ll get a clear shot without giving myself away or allowing her to escape. Again.

I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. The house is dark. The only sound, the faraway ebb and tide of the ocean a half dozen blocks away. I don’t feel anything, either. None of the strange vibrations I did around Culebra. A bad sign. Wouldn’t I feel something this close to the place where a powerful spell is being cast?

I touch the chain around my neck. Wouldn’t the amulet be sending a warning?

The windows along the back of the house are shuttered. I make my way closer and try to peek between the slats. It’s no good. I sneak around to the front, staying low to avoid being seen from the street. It’s three a.m., but you never know when some insomniac pain-in-the-ass neighbor might decide to walk the dog.

As soon as I find a window with the curtains parted enough for me to look inside, I know why I’m not getting any vibes from the place.

The living room is empty. So is the dining room beyond it. No couch. No tables and chairs. Nothing. An empty expanse of space that goes from one end of the house to the other.

Shit.

My handy-dandy lock picks let me in through the back door. I pause to see if there will be an intruder alert, but none sounds. Doesn ’t mean there isn’t a silent alarm going off somewhere, but by the time a response team gets here, I’ll be long gone.

I run through the house, just to assure myself it isn’t a case of Burke not taking the time to go shopping for her new digs. But there isn’t a piece of furniture anywhere in the place. Not a pot or pan in the kitchen. The closets are empty. I don’t find so much as a scrap of paper. If she had been living here, she isn’t now.

A dead end.

Fatigue washes over me. Fatigue and guilt. Culebra is still near death and Burke has eluded me once again.

I slip back outside, call Culebra’s cell. Sandra answers. Frey is asleep. There has been no change in Culebra’s condition. I can’t bring myself to tell Sandra that I’m not any closer to helping them than I was this morning.

So, I lie. Tell her that I’ll have news tomorrow. That I’m close to finding Burke. If the despair I’m feeling is mirrored in my voice, Sandra doesn’t let on. She may be as good a liar as I am.

When I’m back in the car, I call Ortiz. Tell him what I found, that is to say, what I didn’t find. I also tell him I’m too tired to do anything else tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the warehouse and start all over again. I’ll grill that receptionist. She must be in contact with her boss. Either the human A

But now, I’m going home.

He offers to call Williams. I quickly take him up on the offer and we say good night.

AS SOON AS I WALK THROUGH THE COTTAGE DOOR, I sense it.

Subtle as the drop in pressure before a summer storm.

Someone is here.

I pause, tasting the air, letting supernatural acuity take over from the human. It’s female, human, and she’s upstairs. In my bedroom.

The vampire reacts without prompting. I slip back out the door, position myself under the balcony that leads from my bedroom and leap up. I land on all fours, silently, weightlessly, and look inside.

A woman is on my bed. She’s gagged, bound hand and foot. In the quiet, I hear her labored breathing. I hear her heartbeat, frantic as she struggles against her constraints. I smell her fear, acrid and harsh as bitter almond. I smell something else.

I smell her blood.

CHAPTER 19

THE SLIDER HAS BEEN UNLATCHED AND LEFT OPEN. I slip inside, so quietly she doesn’t realize I’m there in the room with her.

She’s bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts on her arms and legs. It drips from the rope binding her, pools under her on the bed.

The call of it beckons. I take a step toward her.

She’s naked, hands tied above her head, face pointed away from me, toward the bedroom door. She either detects movement, or some instinct sounds the alarm. She turns her head. The gag covers her mouth and chin. I don ’t recognize her. When she sees me, her eyes widen. Her breath comes in gasps, the thudding of her heart turns thunderous, sending the blood rushing through her veins. The cuts weep more freely.