EVEN TO THE SUPERNATURAL COMMUNITY, BESO de la Muerte is a mystery. It takes me almost as much time to reach it from Tijuana as it does from San Diego, mostly because it 's forty miles of bad desert road. The town is not on any map, and if a mortal happened to ignore the inhospitable surroundings and take the unmarked turn off from the main highway, it would not be long before he realized he had made a mistake and quickly head back.
He would not be able to articulate why he knew he had made a mistake. He would simply know that he had.
With one exception. If he is a mortal coming to Beso de la Muerte to be a host.
Culebra has been the sole proprietor of this ghost town turned supernatural hangout for as long as anyone can remember.
The first time I came here I was tracking down the vamp who turned me. I was hunting him because I thought he had kidnapped my partner, David, and burned down my house. Turns out, I was wrong. Avery had done those things. Just as he had laid the false trail that led me to Beso de la Muerte in the first place.
The one good thing that came from the whole debacle was meeting Culebra. I need human blood to survive. Culebra offers humans with an inclination for adventure the opportunity to make money as well as experience the best sex imaginable while providing that blood. He protects both vampires and their human hosts. Keeps vampires off the street and off the radar of those who would hunt us. No bodies left suspiciously drained of blood to attract unwanted attention.
The system works.
More important, Culebra became my friend.
At least, I thought he had become a friend.
I push the biting sting of his parting remarks from my head. Along with the guilt that I'm doing exactly what he asked me not to. A whiny little voice justifies it. Don't I have as much right to be in Beso de la Muerte as Sandra?
It's not yet eleven o'clock in the morning. Not surprisingly, there are only two cars parked in front of Culebra's bar when I pull up. Most of the action takes place after dark. The cars are a big Cadillac SUV and a silver Porsche Boxster. I park behind the Cadillac and send out a mental probe.
I detect three vampires and one human.
The human must be Sandra. She's a werewolf, but werewolves in human form do not give off a supernatural psychic signature. Two of the vampires are bemoaning the fact that they came all the way from L.A. and are starving and there's no one here to eat. The third vampire is emitting no telepathic signal at all.
I push through the double swinging doors.
The two vamps griping about the lack of service are sitting at a table in the middle of the room. They each have a beer in front of them.
They are young, dressed in open-neck polos and jeans. Both are male, both have carefully coiffed hair and both have an L.A. chic look about them. Probably belong to the Boxster. They look up expectantly when I walk in, then wilt in disappointment when they realize I will not be on the menu.
Newly made, I'd guess, judging from the clumsy way they try to shield their thoughts from me.
The third vampire is at the bar. His back is to me but I sense his reaction when he recognizes me. Because he does recognize me.
Immediately. His back becomes rigid. His thoughts draw in on themselves like a noose tightening around a neck.
He doesn't turn around.
Williams.
For an instant, I'm tempted to turn around and get the hell out of here. He's the last person I want to see.
Sandra, however, is a different story. She's the reason I'm here. If I can ignore Williams' phone calls, I can ignore him in person, too.
Sandra is arranging glasses against the back of the bar. When she hears the door, she turns and without looking up, says, "Take any table-"
She raises her eyes and the words die in her throat. She still has a glass in her hand. It remains suspended in air for the second it takes her to replace a look of irritation with one of resignation. She sighs and places the glass on the bar. While the words she speaks are, "Hello, Anna," her attitude says, "Fuck."
She looks good. She's tall and slim and has eyes that aren't quite green and aren't quite blue, but flash of both. Her dark hair has grown since I last saw her, it skims her shoulders. Her skin is sun-kissed and glowing. She looks healthy. She looks alive.
What she doesn't look is happy to see me.
"Hello, Sandra."
I step up to the bar and place both my hands flat on its surface. I know why she's reacting the way she is. Culebra made that clear. It's the reason I came.
For the moment, though, the more urgent problem is the vamp to my left. His negativity flares, burning into my subconscious, demanding response.
So much for ignoring him. Without turning, I say, "Hello, Williams."
The negativity is momentarily suppressed by a flicker of satisfaction. He was waiting for me.
He was waiting for me.
Son of a bitch. Did Culebra set this up?
Sandra's expression, though, hasn't wavered. Her reaction seemed real enough.
So what the fuck is going on?
Next moment, all my questions are washed away in the flood of nonverbal communication Williams sends my way.
If you'd answer my calls, your friends wouldn't have to resort to trickery.
I do answer my friends' calls. I didn't-I don't want to talk to you.
My gut churns in frustration and anger. Williams has played enough dirty tricks on me to bring out the animal instinct for self -
preservation. The beast rises close to the surface.
Williams is in my head, probing for any hint of a threat. He quickly relays his own intention to keep this meeting a civil one, and politely inquires whether I can do the same.
The vibes we're throwing off must be explosive because the two vamps at the table get up and beat it out of the bar.
The roar of the Porsche engine is still rattling the windows along Main Street when Sandra ends our head game. She isn't privy to what's going on between us, but her own animal instinct for preservation senses the hostility. She slams a glass on the bar with enough force to shatter it.
"Great," she says. "They left without paying for their beer. Which one of you big, bad vampires is going to pick up their tab?"