When I step from behind the rock, the others are still there, too, but like me, have dressed. The women wear baggy, shapeless dresses of cotton, the men trousers and loose-fitting shirts.
Time to get some answers. I address the one who called himself Zuria.
“What do you call yourselves?”
“We are Sorginak.”
“Are there many of you?”
He waves a hand. “This is the circle. The protectorate. There are not many who follow the old ways anymore. Even our children have no interest. Your coming was to be the spark.”
“The spark?”
“The resurgence of traditional Basque ways.”
I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to know what that means. I only want to go after Lance. Which calls up another question.
“How did I get here?”
He frowns as if I should know. “Maju. Brought you here across the sky on his chariot of fire. You and the younger man.”
Chariot of fire? That this man really believes this shit in the twenty-first century trips another spasm of barely containable anger. The vampire within me writhes to be set free, to exact revenge. I have to close my eyes a moment to plea with vampire to be patient, to assure her that she will have an opportunity to vent her wrath soon.
When she is quieted, I face Zuria again. Even with the effort to suppress it, my voice shakes with frustration. “You didn’t find it strange that I, your so-called goddess, came to you drugged? And that the man who called himself my husband had me bound to that altar and was about to rape me?”
He shows me the same blank expression as when I asked how I got here. “It is not up to us to question the ways of the gods. Maju told us what to do—how to prepare for the ceremony. We did as he asked.”
There is no outrage. Not even a spark of confusion or doubt. This man believes he did nothing wrong.
Now what?
“How far are we from an airport?”
That question, at least, allows Zuria to respond like a rational human being. “Not far. There is an airport in Biarritz.”
The impression lasts barely as long as it takes him to answer. A shadow darkens his face. “You are leaving? What are we to do?”
There are so many ways I want to answer that question—most involving various body parts. Instead, I take a moment to choose my words carefully.
“First, you are to take me to the airport. Then you will return to your homes and forget what happened here. The one you called Maju was a false prophet. Keep vigilant. When the time is right, I will be back with my true consort. Do you understand?”
Hope shines from Zuria’s eyes. “You will not punish us for Maju?”
Hopefully the law will do that when they discover the body inside the cave. As for Underwood? Trying to explain his desiccated corpse will merely change the nature of the plea from murder to insanity.
I shake my head. “No. This man who pretended to be Maju was a powerful sorcerer. But you must heed my words. No more ceremonies. Live your lives quietly and in peace with the world. Wait. For my return.”
The words are so much garbage. I expect someone in the group to challenge what I’ve said. Instead, the reaction is one of relief. They gather their personal belongings from the floor of the cave and prepare to go. They are chatting amongst themselves as if coming from a church social instead of having just participated in an ancient ritual that left their deity, Maju, not to mention one of their own, dead at the hands of a vampire.
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 anniversary of my becoming is past.
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.