Chosen

Lance

My hand crushes the letter into a ball.

Love. My only consolation is that I never told the bastard that I loved him. A small, meaningless triumph but a satisfying one nonetheless.

I look around for the key that fell from the envelope when I withdrew the letter and pluck it from the grass. It’s a slender, brass key with a numbers printed on the head.

A locker key.

For the first time since I awakened in the cave, I feel a glimmer of hope. If this is what I think it is, Lance may have earned himself a quick death instead of a long, painful one.

At four thirty people start filtering into the airport. Uniformed pilots and flight attendants and security people, and then the less obvious cadre of reservationists and gate attendants and janitors in one-piece jumpsuits. At five thirty, promptly, the doors are opened to a small group of customers who, like me, are waiting to be on their way.

In my halting French, I ask one of the security guards where I can find the casiers. He points down a hall at the end of the ticket counter.

The number on the key is 118. When I find the locker, insert the key and see what’s inside, a thrill of relief washes over me.

Wallet. Credit cards. Passport.

Another note.

We left your plane at the borne privée. Proceed through the VIP lounge and inquire at the concierge desk. They will put you in touch with a pilot.

Another grievance to add to the list. The bastard used my own plane to transport me here. What did they tell security when they manhandled me off? That I was incapacitated by what? Illness? Did they say I was infectious to avoid close scrutiny?

No matter now. I find the VIP lounge and enlist the help of a trim, sophisticated young woman who speaks perfect English. She assures me that she will have no trouble making the necessary arrangements to secure a crew and have my plane readied for the trip home. She hands me a manifest to look over and sign.

The cost is staggering. I could have flown round trip commercially a dozen times in first class for far less. When I prepare to offer a credit card, however, she waves it aside.

“No, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Turner took care of it. He paid in advance. I’m afraid it will take several hours, however, before all is ready. You are welcome to stay here. Food and drink are available in the bar. Spa facilities are through the door in back. You may shower and change if you wish.”

I nod my thanks and turn away. A shower sounds good. You have no idea how dirty you can feel until a demon in a man suit rubs himself all over you.

I noticed a few shops on my way to the VIP lounge so I head there now. Like the airport in San Diego there aren’t any clothing stores. No designer boutiques. Not even the equivalent of a Gap. I end up buying a little tangerine-colored beach cover-up that will have to do as a dress and a pair of sandals at a surf shop called Quiksilver.

Not exactly my style. When I hold it up, the dress hits mid-thigh .

At least it’s clean.

It takes a little over three hours before I’m finally allowed to board. The pilot and copilot are American.

“Good to see you looking so well,” the pilot says to me, extending a hand. “Mr. Turner said he was bringing you here to recuperate from an illness. Obviously, you have.”

He’s young, early thirties, oily—his hair, his obsequious smile, his voice.

I smile back, though it feels more like a grimace. The lie is hard to swallow. What I want to do is beat my chest and ask how he could have been so stupid. Did I look like I was ill? Or did I look like I was drugged and being kidnapped?

Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe he couldn’t have known. Somehow, though, I think it more likely the money he was paid for the charter smoothed away any misgivings he may have harbored about the way I was brought on board.

He leaves for the cockpit. The copilot takes care of the door. He’s a little older, forty maybe, and when he’s through latching and securing, he joins me in the main cabin.

“Flying time is thirteen hours, Ms. Strong. We will put down once in Bangor, Maine, to refuel. We should be on the ground in San Diego about one o’clock, Pacific daylight time.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t display any of the sycophantic toadying of his coworker. He doesn’t even look particularly happy to be here.

I like him.

I’m asleep before the plane gains cruising altitude. One moment I’m gazing out at the Basque countryside as we rocket down the runway.

The next, I’m not.

I WAKE UP TO THE WHIR AND PNEUMATIC CLICK OF the landing gear engaging. I stretch and yawn and check my watch. This must be the refueling stop.

The telephone on the console beside my seat buzzes. When I pick it up, the copilot’s voice tells me I have a call. He disco

“My god, A

“Nice to hear your voice, too, Frey. What’s the matter?”

“Everything. Williams’ wife went crazy at Culebra’s and killed a host. David is missing. Your new partner Tracey has been calling all over the place trying to locate you. She got halfway through the Fs before she found my number in your office Rolodex. I wouldn’t have known to try the plane if Lance hadn’t called. Where are you?”

His words are disjointed and rambling, launched at me through the phone with the speed of light in a burst of pent-up emotion that renders them almost incomprehensible.

Almost.

It takes me only a second to sort through the tirade and zero in on the one salient point in his rant.

“What do you mean David is missing?”

CHAPTER 32

Before continuing, Frey sucks in a noisy breath, as if the outburst forced all the air from his lungs. “Tracey said David was supposed to meet her at the office on Friday. In fact, she said you were supposed to meet her at the office on Friday, too. When neither of you showed up, she waited. While she was there, the phone rang. It was David’s girlfriend. She wanted to know if you were all right. David got a call Thursday evening saying you had been in an accident. He left her in San Francisco and came right back. No one’s seen him or heard from him since.”

He runs out of air again, stopping abruptly to inhale. “Was there an accident? Are you all right?”

A click over the line and the pilot’s voice interrupts. “Ms. Strong, we’ll be on the ground about forty-five minutes. Bangor has cleared us for takeoff after fueling at oh six hundred hours. ETA for San Diego is thirteen hundred Pacific daylight time. Do you want to deplane at the fueling station?”

I press the intercom button. “No. I’ll stay on board. Get us off the ground as soon as possible.”

Frey cuts in as the pilot clicks off. “Bangor? As in Maine? What are you doing in Maine?”

I rub a hand across my eyes. “You don’t want to know. I’ll fill you in later. Right now, I’m more concerned about David. Christ, I don’t even know what questions to ask. This could be a skip we turned in. Or a supernatural. Someone out to get me because of Williams.” I sit up straight in the seat. “What did you say about Mrs. Williams? She killed a host?”

I can almost see him nodding as he says, “Drained her. Culebra was there, but she lost control. Swatted him away as if he were a fly on the wall. Knocked him cold. She’s incredibly strong for a new vamp. Culebra should have been able to stop her.”

Culebra should have been able to stop her. Did she get her strength from being sired by a two-hundred-year-old vamp? Or is it something else?

Concentrate on the problem at hand.

“What happened then?”

“She took off. When Culebra came to, she was gone. Along with another human, according to the barkeep. Carried him off. Culebra is beside himself with worry. She’s behaving like a rogue, which puts the entire supernatural community in danger.”