Retribution

Since I figure he’s sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. “Shall we go?”

His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don’t know if he’s friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. I need him for only one thing.

We get into the car. On the backseat there’s a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he’s a cowboy, though I’ve never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.

We don’t speak until the car has left the airport. “The driver has the address?” I ask then, itchy to get on with it.

“Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security.”

I look away, suppress a smile. We might have trouble getting past security? I don’t intend to have any trouble at all.

Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too. Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.

I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams -can-blow-himself reply I’d like to make, I say instead, I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.

He nods. I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.

Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she’s not a woman. She’s a witch. It’s important you don’t forget that.

He’s projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He’s making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation.

I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I’m concerned, Turnbull’s only function is as a vampire GPS system. That’s it.

Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I’ve purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He’s not happy to be here.

So why is he?

To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?

TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.

Turnbull raises an eyebrow. I hope you have a plan B.

We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard’s “May I help you,” I’ve launched into the story—the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we’re meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we’re late and she’s going to be waiting for us at—I look at Uncle Bull—what was that address again?

Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux’s address.

The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver ’s name and license number and the limo’s license plate. Then he waves us through.

“You’ve done this before,” Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. “What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?”

David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I’m the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.

To Turnbull, I reply, “Place like this isn’t going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He’d have no reason to question us.”

Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks, Tricky bitch, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.

Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he’s no friend of mine.

The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable.

There’s no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.

When the driver rings, there is a moment’s delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, “Yes?”

I lean forward to be able to answer. “I’m looking for Sophie Deveraux.”

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“A

“And your business with Ms. Deveraux?”

“Private.”

The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.

The disembodied voice returns with the message, “I’m sorry, Ms. Deveraux is not at home. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. I’ll try again later.”

Turnbull looks relieved. He instructs the driver to turn around. Once we’re back on the road, I tell the driver to pull over.

“Why are you telling him to stop?” Turnbull asks, voice tense with irritation.

I ignore him and instruct the driver. “Find the access road that runs behind the property.”

Turnbull raises a hand. “Wait a minute. What makes you think there’s an access road?”

“There’s a stable in back. I didn’t see anyway to get to it from the driveway so there ’s bound to be another way in. A delivery entrance.”

The driver looks to Turnbull, unsure how to proceed.

Frustration burns through me. “Look, one way or the other, I’m getting into that house. I’ll get out right here and walk if I have to.”

He glares at me a minute before waving the driver on.

“What the hell is it with you? I thought you were supposed to help me.”

Turnbull’s jaw is set, his shoulders bunched. “I have lived here since the begi

So Williams told him the purpose of my “visit.” I understand Turnbull’s reluctance to get involved. This is his home turf and we ’re dragging him into a fight that could easily turn nasty.

“Look, I’ll try to keep you out of it. You’ve gotten me this far. If you want to drop me off and leave, I’m sure I can find my way back to the airport.”

His shoulders relax a little, but not his apprehension. I can taste it in the air. “We’re here now,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

Not a ringing endorsement of cooperation, but better than nothing. “This Sophie Deveraux, do you know anything about her?”

He shakes his head. “Not much. She’s the last living relative of Jonathan Deveraux—a cousin five generations removed. Sole heir to his fortune, so the story goes. Deveraux was a vampire. A nasty bastard according to the stories. He was killed at his one hundred fiftieth birthday party. By his wife. She disappeared not long after. Rumor has it this Sophie had something to do with it, but there was never any proof. I think it’s safe to assume she’s dangerous.”

“Is she a vampire?”

“Not that I know. There’s been some talk that she may be a witch. One of her cousins was.”

“A cousin?” My fingers touch the charm. “What was her name?”

“Sophie Burke. Best damned caterer in Denver. She died not too long ago.”

Shit. If Sophie Burke is dead, what co

Turnbull is rambling on, “Sophie’s said to be a strange bird. Keeps to herself. Doesn ’t get involved in the human or supernatural community. For inheriting such vast wealth, she’s kept a remarkably low profile.” His eyes hold mine, then slide away. “Gives you and Sophie something in common.”

The usual rush to deny claiming any part of Avery’s fortune is tempered by the reality that I just arrived in Avery’s private jet. I focus on the scenery.

We’re winding through tree-lined streets, past properties that must cost tens of millions of dollars. The silence in the car is oppressive.