Her face brightens. “A host?”
“No. A shape-shifter who will take you to a place where you can safely feed.”
The frown is back again. “You won’t come with me?”
“I can’t. I have things to attend to.” Things your husband is responsible for, I’m tempted to add.
She’s not happy with the response. Her body is rigid with protest. I don’t care. We stare at each other a few seconds before she looks away. Her need for blood is stronger than her need to argue. She’s afraid if she pushes me, I’ll throw her out to manage on her own. She’s not ready to attempt it.
She looks back at me.
She’s convinced she soon will be.
The urge to smile at her is strong. She doesn’t realize I’m reading her like a first-grade primer. I understand now why a man like Williams would hide his ability to impose himself into his wife’s head. What better way to exert authority than to know what she is thinking and feeling? And to weigh it against what she might tell him she’s thinking and feeling.
It’s a powerful tool for control.
And Williams was all about control.
CHAPTER 27
Mrs. Williams and I wait in silence for Frey to arrive. I keep my thoughts hidden, just in case she’s figured out that she heard me in her head. She’s not a stupid woman. Her husband kept her in the dark about the telepathic connection between vampires and other supernaturals. Once she spends time with Frey and Culebra, though, I have no doubt she’ll pick up the trick quickly.
I wonder how she’ll react to the realization that Williams was reading her every thought? I know how I’d react.
It’s the equivalent of mental rape. No matter how much I loved the guy, it would alter the grieving process considerably.
When Frey and Layla arrive, I’m subjected to the same hypercritical appraisal of my home by Layla as I was by Mrs. Williams. It’s even more intense with Layla, since she happens to be an interior designer. Before she even says hello, or acknowledges Mrs. Williams, she says, “Not bad, Anna. Could use a professional’s touch—your furniture is a little dykish. And you could use some artwork on the walls.” She turns my way with a condescending smile. “I’d be happy to help.”
Ire rises along with the hair on the back of my neck. Frey intervenes. I don’t know what he says to her, but she turns green cat eyes on him wide with innocence. I am being nice. I offered my services.
He closes his eyes a moment in what looks like an attempt to control his exasperation and pushes past her. He extends a hand to Mrs. Williams. “I’m Daniel Frey. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She takes his hand, her expression once again riddled with confusion. She must have heard the exchange between Frey and Layla and still can’t comprehend why. “You are vampire?”
“No.” Frey’s voice is soft with understanding and compassion, the same voice he’d use with a troubled student. “I am a shape-shifter. So is Layla. We can communicate with you telepathically. Vampires and shape-shifters have that ability. You’ll get used to it soon, I promise.”
An appreciation of why she wasn’t aware of her telepathic powers is blossoming in Mrs. Williams mind. We all feel it. The beginning of doubt as to her husband’s motives. Curiosity about what other powers she might have that he neglected to tell her about. A spark of anger.
Still, she summons the strength to temper those thoughts. She hasn’t learned to cloak them. Yet. But she is wise enough to know the three beings in the room with her are privy to what’s going on in her head. Instead, she concentrates on where Frey and his Barbie doll girlfriend are about to take her.
Layla’s mouth turns down in consternation at being classified a “Barbie” doll. She doesn’t have an exaggerated hourglass figure; she’s thin as a reed. But she does have pouty good looks, and with that long hair cascading down her back, it’s easy to make the comparison.
Layla sees the smile that quirks the corner of my mouth.
She shoots me a venomous look. Watch it. We’re here to do you a favor.
Mrs. Williams looks flustered when she catches Layla’s remark to me. She clears her throat in a nervous attempt to draw attention away from her gaffe. “Where are we going? Anna never told me.”
Frey, too, is suddenly anxious to put distance between Layla and me. “We’re taking you to a place where you can safely feed.” He ushers her toward the door with a hand at her elbow, crooking a finger at Layla. Layla follows with another black look in my direction. Once he has them both started for the car, Frey turns back to me.
“Are you going to be all right by yourself?”
“Yes.” After this morning, by myself is a welcome relief. “Lance will be home by noon.”
Frey doesn’t question or argue. The basis of his concern is that Williams was a threat as long as I refused to cooperate with him. It follows then that with Williams gone, the threat should be, too. Frey has no way of knowing my suspicions about the part Underwood played in William’s death. With Mrs. Williams here, there was never an opportunity to discuss it and now, what purpose would it serve except to add yet another reason for him to worry about me? I wave him off and watch until the car pulls from the curb. Mrs. Williams’ determined face stares out at me from the backseat.
Once they are gone, my thoughts turn to what I should do next. I know of only one way to contact Underwood—at his place in La Quinta. It takes me a moment to get the number and another moment to be connected.
I should have known it would not be this easy. The receptionist tells me Underwood checked out yesterday afternoon.
Of course he did.
Not getting his cell number was a stupid and negligent oversight on my part. I depended on Williams to be my contact. Now, I can only wait for Underwood to contact me.
Which is problematic. It will be hard to explain skipping out alone with Lance playing guard dog. I had hoped to meet with Williams yesterday or this morning before Lance got back to town.
Fuck. Nothing is ever easy.
With two hours to kill before noon, restlessness once again comes to roost on my shoulders like a leaden yoke. If I go to the office, I might at least have the distraction of a telephone call from a potential client. It doesn’t take me long to decide anything—even work—is better than sitting around.
The office is closer to the airport, too, so more convenient when Lance calls that he’s arrived. I leave a voice message on his cell letting him know where I’ll be.
Mind made up, I’m on the road in five minutes.
It’s another postcard-perfect day in sunny San Diego. The water sparkles, the blue sky shimmers cloudless and bright, the harbor is so full of boats it looks like a floating traffic jam.
A day like this, it’s a joy just to be near the water. I feel it even here on the deck outside our office.
Maybe I should buy a boat. No one can sneak up on you on a boat. Lance and I could anchor in the bay, stranding Underwood and his fortune-telling on shore. Maybe if I let the anniversary of my becoming vampire pass unnoticed, so would the prophecies. Let some other poor soul take on the mantle of the Chosen One.
Williams may be dead, but his goddamned legacy is as burdensome as Avery’s. When I should be mournful that a two-hundred-year-old vampire just flamed out of existence, instead I can’t let go of the animosity. If he’d been honest with me in the beginning, he wouldn’t be dead.
“Williams, you fucker. It’s all your fault.”
“Talking to yourself now?”
The voice at my elbow startles me so much, the vampire reacts before the human. Teeth bare, a snarl erupts, and I have a neck in my hands in the time it takes my eyes to register to whom the voice belongs.