not quite right.” She looks at her sister witches. “We take responsibility for not knowing enough about what we did for you that day. But our excitement at penetrating the astral plane and our belief that you were doing the right thing in following Belinda Burke there blinded us to everything else. It’s up to us to make things right and get Stephen back.”
I look from one anxious face to another. I can’t bring myself to tell them that I’ll never regret killing Belinda Burke, sanctuary or no. But I won’t let an innocent take the rap for something I did.
What did Ariela say? The powers are demanding a life for a life?
Do they expect me to give up my life for a stranger? Not fucking likely. Not without a fight.
I made it back from that “place of sanctuary” once before. I figure I can do it again.
“What do we do now?”
Susan’s shoulders drop in relief. “You’ll help Stephen?”
I nod.
She stands up. “We have to go to the park.”
I stand up, too, and step from around the desk. “Let’s go.”
FIVE
THE PARK IS BALBOA PARK AND IT’S ALIVE with people this clear, sunny summer afternoon. But still the magic works. As if invisible, the four of us separate from the crowd heading into the Natural History Museum and melt into the bushes across the way. We pass through a magical barrier, a touch of damp against our skin, and without drawing a glance from people on the sidewalk, we are at a door hidden behind a mystical waterfall. Min Liu pulls a big brass key from her purse. The door opens at her touch and we step inside.
This is the entryway into the hub of San Diego’s supernatural community and yet it looks like a nondescript reception room—a desk with a computer, a rack of magazines, a couple of chairs. Min Liu punches a few keys into the computer and with a whir of machinery, the entire room descends. On the ride into the bowels of the building, I think of the many times I’ve taken this trip and how different it feels now.
It’s been months since I’ve been here. Months since my enemy turned mentor turned tormentor, Warren Williams, was killed and my link with the Watcher community was broken. The emotions I feel when the door slides open and I step into the room tumble over themselves like pebbles in a stream. It’s at once familiar and threatening, foreign and natural. This should be where I belong.
But it’s not anymore. I believe now it never was.
Everything looks the same. The central core of the large square room is filled with cubicles—this is the financial heart of the Watcher organization. Psychics—real psychics—man a bank of telephones to dispense advice to fee-paying clients. But the clients here are not looking for hints about their love life or seeking contact with newly departed love ones. These clients are world leaders seeking advice on matters that affect us all.
I let my gaze sweep the room, irony burning like acid at the back of my throat. From the state of the world, I’m not sure how much good they’re doing—or whose side they’re really on.
Susan’s hand on my arm yanks me from the bitter reverie.
“This way, Anna.”
I follow the three toward the back of the room. My presence causes a ripple among the psychics. Most know who I am, recognize me from previous visits. The ones who don’t catch the hostile vibrations emanating from their comrades. Almost all hold me responsible for the death of Warren Williams. They know I didn’t kill him myself, but a deluded vampire who thought I was a reincarnated goddess killed him because of me. His soul mate destined to rule the world by his side.
My lips tilt up reflexively in a tight smile. That monster is dead. I
No consolation to those here who are still in search of a leader to replace Williams. I’ve kept away from this place and haven’t a clue who heads things now. Neither do I want to know. I don’t belong here anymore. The feeling that I never did floods back stronger than ever.
I try to shake off the gloom settling over my shoulders like a shroud. All the negative energy being directed my way brings the vampire inside close to the surface. I’m relieved when Susan opens a door and we’re shut off from the hostility.
Another familiar room. This one where the witches sent me, at my bidding, to the astral plane to deal with an enemy. I don’t see any of the trappings they used then—no candles or goblets or amulets to speed me on my way. The room is empty except for a circle drawn in the center.
I remember something else.
“I needed blood to make the spell work last time. An innocent’s blood.” The blood of someone who is no longer my friend. Another repercussion of that fateful trip.
Susan casts an uneasy glance at her sister witches. “This time will be different,” she says.
I don’t like her tone. It rings with apprehension and uncertainty.
“How?”
Her eyes flutter closed for an instant, but then she squares her shoulders and looks directly at me. “They are sending an escort for you.”
“An escort?”
A bob of the head. “Yes.” She touches my hand. “But some things will remain the same. You will not be vampire on the ghostly plane. You will be human. You will have no power except mortal strength and cunning.”
Ah, yes. I remember that, too. “I suppose taking a weapon with me is out of the question.” I let a sigh escape my lips as three pairs of troubled eyes flash in reply. “When is this escort supposed to arrive?”
“Before he does,” Susan says, “there’s something—”
Her words are choked off by a blaze of white light, brilliant, blinding. A sound like the furious beating of wings. Instinct says I should close my eyes. Curiosity keeps them wide open. At first, it’s like looking into sun reflected on snow. Disorienting and too bright. Then gradually a shadow forms—like a negative film image. Dark is light, light, dark. Finally, my vision clears. Wings. Outstretched. There one second, gone the next. All that’s left then is the figure of man. He looks up at me and my breath catches in my throat.
He’s the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
An angel.
SIX
I’M NOT EASILY IMPRESSED BY HANDSOME men—my last boyfriend was a model who looked like Adonis but had the soul of Judas. Nevertheless, this creature is striking. With his blue-green eyes and close-cropped head of tight curls, he looks like another Greek god—marble turned flesh and blood. I know the witches beside me are thinking the same thing. I heard their gasps when he materialized out of the light. Now we all stand here with our mouths hanging open in astonishment, too stunned by his beauty to do more than stare.
But he’s looking just at me, and he has an expression on his face that seems to reflect surprise. Did he think I wouldn’t be here, that I’d refuse to cooperate? Did he think me a coward? Then he’s smiling, his gaze taking us all in.
His smile is benevolent, but there’s something darker lurking under the surface. I recognize it even if the others don’t.
And they obviously don’t. They are spellbound by his beauty.
He’s dressed in jeans. Tight jeans. And a form-hugging T-shirt of white cotton. His clothes suggest he’s comfortable with modern attire while the vibe he’s sending off is ageless and old. He drinks in the appreciation and wonder with the casual acceptance of one who is used to this reaction. Who welcomes it.
Who expects nothing less.
Which brings the vampire to her senses even if, like the witches, the human Anna wants nothing more than to run her fingers along those bulging biceps.
