Jeanne Stein - Retribution

I offer her a cup of coffee. She shakes her head. “You don’t have tea, do you?”

Regretfully, I shake my head. “No. Sorry. I could run to the store, though.”

She releases a sigh. “No. Don’t bother. Water?”

I get a bottle from the refrigerator and hand it to her. She takes a tiny sip. “Thanks.”

We lapse into silence. I don’t want to bring up the subject, but there are still questions that have to be answered. Culebra and Frey are no longer in danger, but the women who were victimized by Burke and her miracle cream are.

“Sophie, what is going to happen to the women who used your cream? Will they get well on their own? Do the police need to track them down?”

She lifts her chin. “If they were given a strong enough formula, they’ll go through a terrible withdrawal. They may even have the impulse to drink blood, so the police should be aware. With or without help, the women will revert back to their former selves within a month or so of their last application. If all of the cream was destroyed in the fire, there should be nothing more to worry about.”

There’s a hint of antagonism is her voice. Dark anger that I acted precipitously in going after her sister. She thinks the fire ended the threat.

But I know there are truckloads of the stuff out there somewhere. I saw them. Did Williams give the information to the police? So much has happened in the last few days, I don’t know.

May as well broach the second subject. “Have you changed your mind about helping the—” I fumble for the right words. My first choice, the vampires your sister created, tortured and bled, seems too strong right now. She’s grieving the sister, not the monster.

“The girls you told me about last night?”

Saved. “Yes.”

“Of course I want to help them. Why would you think I’d changed my mind about that?” She pushes her chair back. “If you can give me a change of clothes, I’d like to get going.”

I stand up with her and follow her up the stairs. She wants to get away from me as quickly as she can.

I suppose I can’t blame her.

I give Sophie a pair of jeans and a sweater, a hairbrush and a toothbrush. She showers and is ready to go to Rose’s in half an hour.

The ride to Rose’s is quiet. Even Deveraux has lapsed into silence. Rose is thrilled when she meets Sophie and hears her plan. The girls, who think Sophie is their own age, go along happily, especially when Sophie tells them about the mansion that will be their home and how beautiful Denver is. One call to Jeff, and he says he’ll have the jet waiting for them at the airport.

THE GIRLS HURRY ON BOARD THE JET, PROTECTED BY billowing gowns that cover them from neck to ankle and wide-brimmed hats. They chatter their good-byes to me as they go, excited to begin a new life, hopeful in a way most of them have never been before.

Sophie stands beside me on the tarmac after they are safely inside.

“I’ll keep you informed about the girls,” she says. “They’ll be fine with us. They’ll be protected.”

I wish I could think of something to say to close the chasm between us. I don ’t regret killing Burke. I’d do it again. I regret not being able to ease Sophie’s pain.

She’ll come around. For the first time, Deveraux reaches out.

No. She won’t.

I lost a brother. I know. Nothing eases that pain.

I’VE SEEN IT BEFORE IN MEDIA ACCOUNTS BUT NEVER experienced the real thing. The funeral of a decorated police officer.

Ortiz’ funeral.

I arrive at the cemetery after the mile-long procession of police vehicles and limousines have already disgorged the mourners. Ortiz ’

empty coffin is on the grave site, draped in an American flag. A color guard is off to one side.

I stand in the back of the crowd, scanning for the presence of other vampires, on alert for Williams. I expect he’ll be sitting with Brooke.

He has great resources within the supernatural community. Resources that would have come to his aid yesterday and helped him heal.

Knowing how he felt about Ortiz, I can’t imagine he would not have moved heaven and earth to see his friend laid to rest. And yet I detect no other vampires—not even Williams. Is he cloaking himself from me?

I work my way through the crowd, but don’t push myself to the very front. After what happened yesterday, keeping him in sight while not exposing myself seems prudent. I don’t expect he’d try to retaliate here, but he may have someone else do it for him. It may be the reason he’s cloaking his thoughts.

When I reach a place where I can see the seated mourners, I get a shock. Brooke and her sister are together under a covered awning.

Alone. Williams is not with them.

The two sisters lean in toward each other, hands entwined. They are dressed in black, slacks, sweaters. Brooke is listening to the police chaplain as he reads from an open Bible. She has the weary, glazed look of one in shock.

I recognize the expression. It’s one of the reasons I hate funerals. No matter how long it’s been, I’m transported right back to the one funeral I’ll never be able to forget. The sharp anguish of losing a brother has not diminished with time. The pain still gnaws at my gut.

There’s an older woman seated to the right of Brooke. She has an arm over the back of Brooke’s chair, sits erect, stares straight ahead.

If she’s listening to the police chaplain, she gives no indication of it. She appears more angry than sad. Restless. Every few minutes, her eyes scan the crowd, pausing on a face here and there, moving on. Who is she looking for?

She finds me. There’s no ambiguity in her reaction when she sees me. It ’s nothing overt. She doesn’t jump up or point or yell in my direction.

She simply grows very still and stares.

As soon as our eyes meet, I know why. I recognize her. From a night nine months ago when I was invited to a party at Avery ’s. We were never formally introduced, but I saw her in Avery’s living room. She was there with her husband.

She is Warren Williams’ mortal wife.

For the remaining hour of the service, she doesn’t take her eyes off me. As it concludes, the color guard gives its twenty-one-gun salute and the mourners file past the coffin to pay last respects.

Brooke and her sister are among the last to leave the grave site.

Mrs. Williams stands off to the side. I do, too. The sisters glance over at us but don ’t approach. When they’ve made their way to a waiting car, she turns to me.

“I know what you did.”

Mrs. Williams is an attractive fortysomething, sophisticated, perfectly coiffed, attired in the proper ensemble for the funeral of a friend.

Her tailored suit is charcoal gray, probably Versace, her shoes chic but sensibly low -heeled to handle the grass, her shoulder bag dark-grained leather. She wears a simple band of diamonds on her left ring finger, diamond studs in her ears.

What doesn’t fit the polished exterior is her expression.

Anger burns through her eyes. It’s a dark shadow on her face, a clenched jaw. She’s human, but she’s projecting enough animal hatred to make me take a defensive step back.

She closes the distance. “Warren is at home. He almost didn’t make it. I had to pull that bar out of his chest. He might have died in that warehouse, and you left him there. You chose the life of a witch over one of your own.”

There’s no point in reminding her that her husband is a vampire and wouldn ’t have died. Or in asking her if she knew why he’d gone to the warehouse in the first place.

She’s beyond the point of reason. She looks toward the car, turning her face away from me. “No parent should ever suffer the loss of a child,” she says. Her voice is sad, haunted.