Retribution

I close the bedroom door behind me.

Ortiz and Brooke are nowhere to be found. The house is quiet. I let myself out.

What a bizarre way to start the morning. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Ortiz the same way again. But the anxiety that had been building with the hunger is gone. I’m clearheaded, refreshed.

Horny.

Too bad Lance is in New York.

Too bad I have a witch to kill.

I call Frey’s cell phone to check in.

Sandra picks up.

Her voice on his phone causes a ripple of alarm. “Where’s Frey?”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s sleeping.”

“And Culebra?”

She sighs. “The same. Any news?”

“I’m heading back to the warehouse now. I’ll get that receptionist to talk if I have to scare the shit out of her to do it.”

After I’ve finished, Sandra waits a beat to say, “Hurry, A

It’s all there in her voice—concern, uneasiness, fear. What isn’t there is the antipathy she displayed toward me when I showed up two days ago. I ring off without bringing it up. When Burke is dead, when Culebra and Frey are safe, there will be time for us to talk.

It’s not yet seven. Too early to head for the warehouse. I doubt the office staff reports before eight. I still have those two women Williams’ identified as the blood-hungry pair who attacked their dates. The pictures are on the seat beside me. One has an address not far from Ortiz’ house. I’ll head there first.

I’m doing the thing I hate seeing others do, holding the pic up against the steering wheel while I drive so I can read the notes printed on the back. The first woman’s name is Valerie Storm. The before picture shows a heavyset forty-six-year-old with dishwater blond hair. The woman in the after picture looks twenty-six with a good bleach job and glamour-shot makeup.

Maybe that’s Burke’s secret. Diet and a dynamite makeup artist.

Valerie Storm lives on Hilltop Drive. It’s a nice neighborhood. I’m halfway down the block when police cars scream up behind me. Shit.

Did Ortiz send these guys after me? Is he so pissed that I ruined his playdate he’s having me arrested for that woman Burke dumped in my bed? I pull over, shoulders tight with aggravation. If he did this—

But the cars don’t stop. They keep going. After a second, I do, too, still looking for Valerie’s address.

I should have simply followed the police cars. We all end up at the same place.

There are three police cars at Valerie’s, one in the driveway, one in the street, one on the front lawn. The cops in the two that passed me are racing toward the front door. I pull up across the street and watch. Neighbors are begi

The chatter among the neighbors tells me that the Storms are nice people, that no one can imagine trouble in the family, that if there was trouble, it probably had something to do with Valerie’s remarkable transformation from suburban duckling to bombshell swan.

One of the men makes a comment about the transformation that earns him an elbow in the ribs from another of those suburban ducklings.

She must be his wife.

It gets quiet when the coroner’s wagon pulls up. The attendants go inside, followed a minute later by a man in a suit. I recognize him. San Diego’s medical examiner. Either Valerie or someone in her family is dead.

My money is on Valerie.

The second of Burke’s test subjects to turn up dead.

My stomach is queasy with the speculation that I may be responsible. Didn’t Burke say she wanted to play a game with me? See how clever I was? I know she’s capable of murder—she killed an i

After all, it didn’t work last night.

What game is she playing?

I return to my car and flip open my cell. I call Ortiz. His voice mail picks up so I tell him where I am now and where I ’m headed next—

to El Cajon. To the home of the third of Burke ’s test subjects. I ask him to call me when he finds out what happened at the Storm residence.

That’s two of three women co

CHAPTER 22

MADDIE COLEMAN LIVES ON EMERALD HEIGHTS Road. I’ve never heard of it and it takes my trusty GPS to get me there. It turns out to be a winding street off the end of Magnolia Avenue. It’s a surprisingly nice neighborhood above an old and run-down area with views that stretch out over the El Cajon Valley. Maddie’s is a low-slung ranch house with a tile roof and high chain-link fence that appears to circle a good-sized piece of property. When I stop in front of it, it becomes clear the reason for the fence. The biggest damned German shepherd I’ve ever seen appears out of nowhere and charges the fence before I get the car door open.

I stay put.

I can see the driveway and partway into the backyard. There’s a swing set and slide. The garage door is closed. Except for the incessant barking of that damned dog, it’s quiet.

What to do?

Dogs don’t like me. It has nothing to do with being a vampire. I know this because dogs didn’t like me before I became vampire. I have no doubt I could break the neck of the snarling beast, but that means getting close, and getting close means putting myself in range of those teeth. I may be a kick-ass vampire, but I still have an aversion to pain.

I hunker down. Surely, somebody will come to the door to see why the beast is raising such a racket. While I wait, I take another look at Maddie. In her before photo, she’s standing beside a tall, pimply -faced teenager in a cap and gown. She looks midfifties, plump, mousey. She’s dressed in a flower-print cotton skirt and pale blazer with a handbag on the arm that isn’t clutching the graduate. Her shoes look like the kind nurses stereotypically wear—square-toed, functional, ugly.

The transformation in her after photo is more remarkable than Valerie’s. Again, it’s a glamour shot. Maddie is almost wearing a black, tight, low-cut cocktail dress. It’s slit up the side to reveal long legs and four-inch stilettos. She has a Veronica Lake haircut, long, shiny dark hair that falls over one eye. She’s smiling at the camera with what can only be described as a “come fuck me” expression.

She looks about twenty-six.

Whew.

The dog is still going crazy in the yard. Maybe I should shoot it. Do the neighbors a favor. Except I haven’t seen a neighbor peek out to see what’s going on, either. Where in the hell is everybody?

Just when I decide I’m going to have to tackle the dog after all, a long black limousine whispers up to the gate. The driver honks the horn and the front door opens. A man appears in the doorway, calls the dog inside, disappears for a minute, then returns without the beast.

So, that’s the trick? All I had to do was honk the horn? The man walks down to the gate. He’s dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and dark tie. He walks with shoulders slumped. The lines of his face droop. When he opens the gate, he does it slowly, as if this simple task requires all his energy. When the limo pulls past him, his gaze falls on me. His expression doesn ’t change. It reflects neither curiosity nor concern.

The only thing those eyes reflect is pain.

He turns without acknowledging my presence and walks back to the house with the same slow, shuffling tread.

The scene is sickeningly familiar.

I know what he’s feeling. See it in a face drawn in lines of sorrow. Sense it in the heaviness of his spirit. Recognize the unbearable sadness that weighs him down and makes the pain of loss the only sensation he’s capable of experiencing.