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Sophie continues, “I thought once she saw what happened here, she’d let it go. But she didn’t. She stole the formula. Maybe she thought she could find a way to ameliorate the side effects. After all, I wasn ’t suffering any side effects. I tried to tell her it was because of the witchcraft, but she wouldn’t let it go. I wasn’t aware of how far she’d gone until I saw an article in a magazine about Simone Tremaine and her amazing new antiaging cream. I recognized Belinda through the glamour. She wouldn’t return my calls or emails. Yesterday, I decided to go to San Diego. Then I saw it on the news. Her factory burned. The cream destroyed. I thought it was finally over.”
Over? Images flash in my head. Culebra and Frey. Ortiz and the young vampires hanging in that basement. Three mortal women dead.
I don’t know how to begin to respond without unleashing the beast. It ’s here, close to the surface. I pause until I get myself under control. Even then, I can’t keep my voice from shaking. “Over? Burke is killing a friend of mine. She has him under a spell. You are going to help me find her. Or you will die, too.”
Wait a minute, Deveraux counters with an angry hiss. Sophie can’t be held responsible for what her sister does.
Maybe I’m not holding Sophie responsible. Maybe I’m holding you responsible. Wasn’t it your idea to use vampire blood in the cream? How irresponsible can you be? Didn’t you think about the consequences of exposing i
What consequences? It’s never been done before. And it wasn’t as if they would be drinking it—they would be applying it.
Topically. Who could have predicted there would be a problem?
I feel his anger escalating. It’s apparent in his arrogance that before he and Sophie were merged, he was a powerful vampire. Now?
Sophie sits quietly during the exchange. Once again, she projects an air of resignation. Perhaps she ’s prepared to accept whatever happens because she’s grown tired of this dual existence. It must be draining to have a war waging constantly inside. And I sense there is conflict waging. Jonathan’s old-soul vampire egotism against what I suspect is a well-meaning, sweet-tempered witch.
It doesn’t change the situation. Nor does it soften my resolve.
“What has my sister done to your friend? ” Sophie asks when Deveraux’s voice has grown silent.
I tell her about Culebra. And our history with Burke. I don’t leave anything out. I start with the first time I saw her at Beso de la Muerte, how she shot Frey when we stopped her demon raising, how she sold me out to a renegade FBI agent who had kidnapped my lover. I told her about the i
How we have only a few hours left to save them.
How if we fail, if my friends die, I will hold both her and her sister responsible. Sophie is the only leverage I have to force Burke’s hand.
Reasonable or not, I’ll use it.
I have to. I don’t have that many friends left.
CHAPTER 44
SOPHIE IS QUIET FOR A LONG MOMENT WHEN I finish. If she’s shocked that I am holding her as responsible as her sister, she’s not showing it. Rather, there is understanding and sympathy in her expression. And a tacit agreement to help. Deveraux is quiet, too. I ’m glad. I’m not sure how I would have reacted if he’d thrown out another smart-ass comment.
The intercom buzzes and Tom’s voice comes on. “We’re begi
My eyes seek Sophie’s. “I hope the co
She understands what I’m saying. I see it in the depths of her eyes. If sacrificing Sophie is the only way to break Burke’s spell or to bring her out of hiding, I won’t hesitate.
Williams is waiting for us when we deplane. There is no warmth in his greeting when I introduce Sophie. I tell Williams that Sophie is Belinda’s sister and that she’s going to help us stop the bitch. Williams is grim. He blames Burke for Ortiz’ death and now finding the witch is as important to him as it is to me. He only wants to exact revenge, however, which means I’ll have to make sure Burke’s hold on Culebra and Frey is broken before he strikes.
All this goes through my head as we start toward the car Williams has waiting for us. It ’s a big Lincoln Navigator. I take the front passenger seat and Sophie climbs in back. Deveraux is silent. I don’t know whether he’s made his presence known to Williams or not, but I don’t mention it and Williams is guarding his thoughts, letting nothing through.
Sophie finally speaks once we’re all in the car and Williams has started the engine.
“I understand what you want me to do. But to reach Belinda, I’ll need a few things.”
Not Where are we going? or What are you pla
I put a “hold it” hand on Williams’ arm and turn to face her.
“What do you need?”
“Black beeswax candles. Herbs. Horehound. Golden-seal. Angelica. Foxglove. I’d prefer fresh, but dried will do. A crystal goblet and holy water.” She lists the items as calmly as a grocery list.
“What? No fatted calf for sacrifice? ” Aggravation spikes my voice up a few notches. “Where are we supposed to get fresh horehound?
Christ. Are you kidding me?”
It’s Williams’ turn to do the “hold it” thing. “I know.”
He steers the car out of the parking lot and heads up PCH to Laurel. From there we jump on 5 South. He takes Imperial Avenue to 15
South and exits on National.
No one has spoken since we left the airport. I break the silence. “Where are we going?”
Williams is heading into a residential area in a shabby part of town. He navigates the maze of streets with an ease borne of familiarity. He doesn’t answer until we pull up to a tiny, weather-beaten cottage off Thirty-fourth. “Here,” he says.
The cottage sits on a lot under the freeway. The pollution and dust from the thousands of cars that pass by each day coat the shingles with a gray haze. I couldn’t begin to guess what the original color was. What we can see from the curb is a ramshackle fence and an overgrown yard. Vegetation is so thick, it’s difficult to distinguish one plant from another. The tangle of growth extends around the sides of the house, giving the impression that the cottage is an afterthought planted in the middle of a jungle.
“This will do nicely.”
Sophie’s voice from the backseat.
I turn toward her. The question, “For what?” dies on my lips. Her eyes are shining, fixed on the yard. She has a hand on the door.
I take another look at the yard. Obviously she sees something I do not.
Sophie climbs out and goes through the gate, sca
“What is this place? ” I ask Williams, following him as he trails behind Sophie.
Before he can answer, the front door opens. An old woman walks onto the porch. She doesn’t look at Sophie poking through her yard like a bloodhound on the scent. Instead, she looks directly at Williams and me.
“Your kind are not welcome here,” she says, pointing a skeletal finger. “Get out of my yard.”
The woman looks a hundred years old, with a wizened, lined face, silver -and-gold-streaked hair drawn up in a bun. She’s stooped-shouldered, supporting her weight on a shiny aluminum walker. But her voice is commanding and her tone sends a chill up my spine.