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I look around in bewilderment.
Unbelievable.
Unfuckingbelievable.
I’ve never been to Biarritz.
When we exit the cave, we are looking down on a beach. Five-foot waves kiss a pearlescent shoreline. It is a clear, moonless night and a half dozen surfers take advantage of the well-formed breakers. The sight provokes a spasm of longing for home—for my cottage. A broad boardwalk is lined with people watching the surfers perform, and I remember another bit of web-generated trivia: Biarritz is an ocean town bordering the Atlantic, a well-known surfing beach.
Cafés and bistros sparkle under strings of twinkling lights. Music floats upward. I see all this from a vantage point that has us facing a lighthouse with a statue perched on a nearby rocky promontory.
Zuria follows my gaze. “That is you, Mari,” he breathes with quiet reverence.
Somehow, I believe it is Mari only in his deluded mind. More likely a statue of a better-known protectorate. My defunct Catholic training stirs in my memory. The Virgin Mary.
The group scatters once we are out of the cave. Each one passes me with a bowed head and some kind of prayerful entreaty. Some try to take my hand. I step back out of reach.
Once just Zuria and I remain, I look around. We appear to be on a walking path whose direction takes us away from the shoreline. It must be close to the trailhead because I already hear car engines starting up.
“How far to the airport?”
Zuria motions me to follow him. I step in line with him and ask again. “How far to the airport?”
He seems reluctant to answer the question. “It would be a bad idea for you to play with me, Zuria. I want to go home. I’ll only ask you nicely once more. How far are we from the airport?”
He wipes a hand across his mouth. “Not far, Goddess. But that is not the problem.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What is the problem?”
He glances at his watch. “It is almost two in the morning. The airport doesn’t open on Saturday until five thirty. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t offer you the hospitality of my home until you could be accommodated.”
I almost laugh at the suggestion. Spend time in this crazy bastard’s home? I’d sooner sleep—
Then the implication of what he said hits me.
I glance at my wrist. Where my watch should be. The Rolex my family gave me last Christmas.
Another spasm of frustration and anger flares through me. My watch is gone.
Bad enough. But that’s not what’s triggering the reaction. Shock. Confusion.
If it’s Saturday, the a
I take mental inventory. I feel the same.
Flex muscles. Nothing.
Glance down. No wings have sprouted. I’m not glowing or shimmering. My body appears normal.
For a moment, I’m so relieved I almost forget where I am and how I got here. I throw back my head and laugh.
Zuria watches with a puzzled frown. “Goddess? Are you all right?”
Better than all right.
It’s over.
Williams. Julian Underwood. Their crazy notion of a destiny.
The euphoric feeling that I am free lasts only as long as it takes vampire to push herself into my thoughts.
Not over.
Not yet.
Don’t forget Lance.
CHAPTER 31
Despite Zuria’s objections, I convince him to drop me off at the airport. It is not lost on me that I have no money, no passport, not even a change of clothes. I need the time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
As I get out of his battered Citroën, Zuria reaches into the backseat and hands me a jacket.
My leather jacket.
“The young one left this for you,” he says.
I take it. Wonder when Lance had time to think of a jacket? Was it before he drugged me or when he was stripping me naked for Underwood and his band of loonies?
Zuria’s reluctance to go manifests itself in a drumming of fingertips on the steering wheel and an expression of sadness that borders on tearful. I finally have to turn away before he puts the car in gear.
“Come back to us soon, Goddess,” he says.
Yeah. Don’t hold your breath. I walk toward the terminal and, finally, hear the clutch engage as the car roars off. The trailing noxious plume of burning motor oil tickles my nose and burns my eyes.
I shrug into the jacket, almost regretting it as soon as it settles over my shoulders. Lance’s smell wafts up. He must have worn it. The urge to take it off and throw it away is powerful, but damn it, I like this jacket. I’ll have it fumigated as soon as I get back home.
The building I’m facing is low-slung and utilitarian. Quiet. I can’t see anyone moving around inside. It’s not big as far as international airports go. There is a small grassy park in front of the terminal and I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the grass while I review my options.
The obvious first option would be to call my folks.
The drawbacks to that are just as obvious. How do I explain being in France with no money, no passport and no notice?
Shit.
If there’s an American consulate somewhere in the vicinity, they may be able to help with money and an emergency visa so I can get out of here.
But I’ll need a story. What story can I use? That I was mugged?
That could explain no wallet and no passport. But what about when they ask me where I’ve been staying? And if I notified the police?
Lance. This is all your fault.
What the hell were you thinking?
How did you get away? If the airport was closed, did you have a car stashed nearby?
For a moment, I’m awash in depression. Drowning in a pool of sorrow, a sense of loss.
The moment passes quickly. Anger swallows it up.
No time for angst.
In frustration, I shove my hands in the pockets of the jacket.
Freeze as my fingers close around—
From the right pocket, I pull my watch.
From the left, an envelope.
I slip the Rolex on my wrist, fasten it before looking at the envelope.
Lance’s handwriting.
To A
I don’t want to feel what washes over me. Regret. Sadness. I want to feel only anger. The man who claimed he loved me delivered me to Underwood, then watched while he violated me. What excuse could he offer that would allow me to forgive such treachery?
Something shifts in the envelope. Curiosity makes me tear it open. I withdraw two folded sheets. When I open them, a small key falls to the grass. For the moment, I ignore the key, eyes drawn reluctantly to the familiar script.
Dear A
If you’re reading this, something has gone wrong. Julian will be dead. If I’m not, I know it’s just a matter of time before I will be. Betrayal is the one thing you can never forgive. The only thing I offer in my defense is that Julian said you wouldn’t be hurt. The ceremony was to open the door. Your role was to be the conduit through which Julian gained his power. It would need to be done only once. You were drugged so you wouldn’t remember. After, you and I would be free to live our lives. Together. Empty words. Lance Turner is no more. My affairs have been put in order. By the time you read this, my lawyers will have informed Adele of my death abroad. She will assume the property in Palm Springs. I ask only that you leave her in peace. She doesn’t know anything about what happened. The Malibu property is yours to do with as you wish. As for me, if you must come after me, I understand. You feel betrayed. You are so strong. It’s hard for you to understand that not all of us are. I have always been weak. I thought after what Julian did to me, you would see the weakness and our relationship would change. That you would no longer look at me as a lover. That you would ask what kind of man lets himself get whipped like a slave. Julian did it as punishment because I told him I wouldn’t go through with his plan. He did it because he could and because I let him. He did it because he thought you would leave me. I should have ended our relationship myself. I didn’t have the guts to do even that. When you didn’t leave, I started to believe what Julian had been telling me since the day we met. That you and I were destined to be together once the prophecy was fulfilled. One night in exchange for a lifetime. It’s when I stopped fighting. It’s when I agreed to help. More empty words, but I wanted you to know. I did love you, A