Haunted

CHAPTER 12

STEPHEN HAS JUST LEFT TO SEE HIS SISTER AND I’M suffering from sensory overload. His smell fills my nostrils, the warmth of lovemaking and feeding sends heat to my skin.

Still, I didn’t get up to see him out. I couldn’t. Very little sleep and a body numb from a lot of sex leaves me inert, snuggled under the covers while Stephen jumps out of bed, showers, and takes off with the promise to be back before dark.

Where is he getting the energy? A day in transit to get home, a night of energetic lovemaking, very little food, no coffee even, and he’s bright and chipper and whistling his way out the door.

Probably from his excitement about this new job offer, my little voice replies.

And I think it’s right. While Stephen didn’t push for a commitment from me, he did manage to work into every conversation how great it could be for us in Washington. If he sensed my lack of enthusiasm, he didn’t mention that, either.

It might have been better if he had. It might have been better to make me put into words just what it is that has me so ambivalent about something he wants so much.

What would I have said? How could I have made him understand how impossible it would for me to hide my true nature in such a media-saturated city? Especially as the consort of a high-profile reporter?

I couldn’t.

I pull a pillow over my head and stifle a groan.

The telephone on the bedside table rings. I toss the pillow aside and reach for the receiver. “Hello.”

“Anna, it’s Max.”

Great. “What’s up?”

“Have you talked to Culebra?”

“Not since Christmas Eve.”

“You hurt his feelings, you know.”

“I hurt his feelings? How? By being shocked to find out about his past?”

Max answers with a hiss into the receiver so pregnant with recrimination, it’s like a slap.

Maybe because I’m tired, maybe because my head swims with too many uncertainties about my own life, maybe because I’m looking for an excuse to vent, the words spew out. “So, Max, tell me. What should I have done? Pat him on the shoulder and say it’s all right that he was an assassin? That it’s all right that he killed indiscriminately on the orders of a drug lord? That it’s all right that it led to the massacre of his own family? Just tell me. What is the proper reaction?”

“So you’re going to write him off?” Max’s heated reply comes just as quickly. “Just like that. You can be such a bitch, you know that, Anna? He’s done a lot for you. Made it possible for you to pretend to be human as long as you have. Kept you from turning into a predator. Without Culebra in your life, where do you think you’d be now? Probably dead—oh, excuse me, really dead because you’d have had the Revengers after you the first time you left a corpse. Yeah, there are vampire hunters out there, remember? And I swear to god, right now I have half a mind to turn you over to them myself.”

“Jesus, Max—”

He cuts me off in midsentence. “Save it.”

And disconnects.

Whoa.

I stare at the receiver in my hand.

Since when has Max become Culebra’s champion? I’m tempted to call him back, remind him that he has a strange attitude for someone who works for an agency whose main purpose is to put narcos out of business. Culebra helped him do that job once, okay, but that doesn’t balance the scales. How could Max think that it did?

And what in the hell does he want me to do? If Culebra is suffering a crisis of conscience, good. He should be.

And killing doesn’t bother you? The annoying voice in the back of my head chirps up once again. How many people are dead because of you? How many supernatural creatures, your own kind, have you eliminated? How many humans? You had reasons. But you killed nonetheless. So exactly how different are you from Culebra?

It’s not the same thing. It wasn’t indiscriminate. It was never indiscriminate.

Was it?

You worked for Warren Williams and his Watcher organization once. He used you like a loaded gun, pointed you at the target and pulled the trigger. Wasn’t that indiscriminate?

Am I really arguing with myself?

I thrust away the covers and get out of bed. May as well. I doubt I’ll be getting any sleep. I’m sore and sticky and pissed. I head to the shower and crank on the hot water. When the room is filled with steam, I step under the spray and let the heat scald my skin red. I soap up and scrub. Still, thoughts keep spinning themselves around inside my brain like a dog chasing its tail.

Why do things have to change? A few days before Christmas, I was simply looking forward to Stephen coming home. Since then I’ve had a confrontation with Culebra, found out my parents are selling their house, been presented with an out-of-the-blue proposal from Frey and blindsided with Stephen’s announcement that he wanted me to move with him to the other side of the fucking country.

And even before all that happened, I wasn’t happy. I felt sorry for myself because I was alone on Christmas Eve. My family’s visit was nice, but over too soon.

Shit.

Max is right. I am a bitch.

I DON’T KNOW WHEN THE THOUGHT TO GO SEE CULEBRA wiggles its way into my consciousness. One moment I’m being self-righteous and indignant and the next I’m in the car headed south.

Why? Couldn’t put it into words. Maybe Max has a point. Eighteen months of friendship deserves more than a brush-off.

I left a message for Stephen after ringing his cell phone and having it go straight to voice mail. He may have turned it off while visiting with his sister. No matter. I’ll be back at the cottage before him, I’m sure.

Lines at the border are long. Security is heightened during the holidays. And the increasing drug violence along the Texas and Arizona borders is spilling over to tighter security along ours.

Hear that, Culebra?

When it’s my turn, I flash my passport and get waved through.

I’m about fifteen minutes outside Beso de la Muerte when I see a man. A lone figure a quarter of a mile from the road, weaving around cactus, stumbling over rocks and brush. I pull over, wondering if he’s an illegal. Or a victim of one of the unscrupulous coyotes working the area. In either case, he’s lost his bearings. He’s not heading toward the border, he’s moving parallel to it. And this is the middle of the day. Even if he makes the border, he’ll run right smack into a patrol.

I climb out of the car at the same instant he takes a header into a ravine. When I don’t see him get right back up, I’m racing over the desert toward him.

I reach him just as he attempts to sit up. He’s holding his head in both hands, a jagged gash at his hairline spilling blood into his eyes. The scent of his blood gives me pause. It’s full of fear. The raw smell of panic increases when he spies me. He jumps to his feet, backing away, spewing Spanish too fast for me to understand.

I hold up my hands, try to remember how to say something reassuring in a language in which I haven’t had much practice.

“Estás lastimado. Puedo ayudarle.”

He doesn’t look reassured. Maybe I got it wrong. I try English this time. I point to his wound. “You are hurt. I can help.”

He looks at the blood on his hands as if seeing it for the first time. “You are not policia?”

His English is halting but good.

“No. Where were you going?”

He sinks down on the edge of the berm. “I’m looking for a friend.”

As far as I know, there’s nothing out here, or even close, except Culebra’s. And this guy is a human, a stranger to me, so it’s doubtful he’d be heading there. Unless . . .

“Are you looking for Culebra?”

“Culebra?” He looks around, startled. “A snake? Why would I be looking for a snake?”

Okay. That answers that question. He doesn’t know Culebra. However, it would be much quicker to get that head wound taken care of in Beso de la Muerte instead of trekking all the way back to the border—a border where we’d both be detained.

I take a step toward him, hold out a hand. “Ven conmigo. I can get you help. For your wound.” When he shies away, I add, “Para su herida.”

“No policia?”

I shake my head. “No policia.”

He looks as if he wants to refuse, but when he tries to stand up and his legs buckle, I’m there to steady him. He gives in with a shrug and lets me help him back to the car. I give him a rag from the trunk to hold against the bleeding wound and a bottle of water. He drinks it down in one long pull and rests his head wearily against the back of the seat.

He falls asleep as soon as we get on the road. It gives me a chance to check him out. He’s dark skinned, has dark hair, probably a nice-looking face under all that blood. He’s not young, not old—late forties maybe. His clothes are dirty but not ragged. Good quality jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt buttoned all the way to the neck. He has sports shoes with a sole hardly worn so he hadn’t been trekking far. Maybe he drove part of the way and his car broke down so he had to abandon it.

But drove from where?

I didn’t pass a car. If he came from the opposite direction, from Tijuana for instance, how did he end up out here?

Questions I won’t be able to answer until we get to Culebra’s.

There’s a lot more going on in Beso de la Muerte today. At least a dozen cars line the road in front of the bar. Should I take the guy inside? He’s still asleep, but it would be no problem to carry him.

Until he wakes up and wonders how I’m able to do such a thing. Or sees the unusual mix of worldly and otherworldly customers that frequent Culebra’s bar.

No. Instead, I send a telepathic message to Culebra. I’m outside. I have someone with me. A stranger. He’s hurt. Not sure I should bring him inside.

In less than a heartbeat, Culebra is standing by the car. He leans in and when he sees the man, a flash of recognition flares in his eyes before he looks quickly away. He slams the door on his thoughts, too, closing his mind with an almost audible click.

He opens the rear door and climbs in. Not surprisingly, he says, “Take him to the cave.”

I put the Jag in gear and pull around back. I know this area as well as I know the bar. This is where Culebra’s “guests” stay, where he lives, where an unlicensed doctor has his “practice.”

Culebra jumps out before I can and reaches inside for the man. He lifts him as gently as he would a child.

The man stirs then, and his eyes open, focus on Culebra.

“Tomás,” he says. “I found you.”