Jeanne Stein - The Watcher

I touch my hair, run my fingers through it. The texture feels the same. Williams probably knows someone who specializes in cutting vamp hair. He does have his colored, after all. Or should I let it grow?

Weird how I never thought about it before. Or how I was going to handle getting a haircut. Can't go back to my salon with its wall-to-wall mirrors, that's for sure.

Wow. I'm amazed at the emotions stirred up by seeing this picture, this image of the vampire Anna. I can't help staring at the face that's mine, but not quite. Something's changed. More than the hair.

The eyes.

My eyes.

Captured by the flash of the camera, they glitter like obsidian in a dark cave. Am I the only one who thinks they don't look quite human? The guy at the motel didn't seem put off. I wish I could see what he did when he looked at me.

Not that I miss mirrors. Vanity was never a concern of mine. In truth, I was never a girly-girl. I liked running with the boys. I liked short hair and jeans. I liked having a strong rather than voluptuous body.

I guess it's a good thing now, isn't it? I hold the picture up. Don't think vampire females come in voluptuous sizes.

I slap the paper down on the seat. I guess one way to keep track of my appearance is to have a picture taken once in a while. Another nugget to add to the list of Helpful Suggestions to Aid in the Care and Feeding of Vampires. A book I intend to write someday.

I have one more stop to make before heading for Mexico. Last night I noticed a hunting outfitters store at the edge of town. I pick up a sleeping bag, coffee pot, premeasured coffee packets, and a down-filled jacket. The best down-filled jacket. Not that I need it. Vampires don't feel air temperature the way human's do. I get it as a present for Trish. Why not? It's Williams' idea to get rid of me and Williams' money I'm spending.

This time, no one asks for my autograph. In fact, no one pays much attention to me at all except to take my cash and bag my purchases.

Fame truly is fleeting.

The border crossing at Mexicali is a much-abridged version of the one in San Diego. While not as many tourist-laden family sedans wait in lines to cross, there are almost as many commercial trucks. It's a slow process. And I have to remind myself that I'm going west on Highway 2 once I get into Mexico, not east the way I would if I were coming from home.

The drive is as uninteresting in this direction as it is from the other. The rental car is a sedan that practically drives itself. I figure it's going to take me about an hour or so to get to the dirt turnoff that leads to Beso de la Muerte. I wonder what I'm going to find when I get there.

I wish I could call Max. If he joined me, we could go after Foley together and make him take us to Martinez. We have leverage now. Alan's death. Even if he has a story about how he did it to protect Dan and Sylvie, he wouldn't be able to explain not coming forward.

And Foley is the one looking to collect a million dollar bounty. Max seems to have cut himself off from all his contacts—including me evidently. Something Foley obviously doesn't know. He must still think I can lead him to Max. Maybe all the angst I've suffered over breaking up with Max is moot. He's taken care of it for me. A quick call to my voice mail confirms my thinking. The only messages I have waiting are from David. Nothing from Max. But David has left ten of them, escalating from apologetic to frantic.

I delete them. Williams said he would call David and explain my absence. I'm happy to let him do it. I have no desire to speak to David, especially today. Gloria's restaurant opens tonight and I'm sure he'll be gushingly excited. I wonder if he even realizes how appropriate the date is. Today is Halloween. High holiday for witches.

Once on the dirt road, the rental demands more attention. It bucks and skitters, clearly not as comfortable with ruts and potholes as it was with asphalt. It takes both hands on the wheel to keep it centered.

It takes almost as much effort to ignore the fear building in my chest. Approaching Beso de la Muerte, I have an overwhelming urge to turn the car around and flee. The same creepy dread that immobilized me the day Culebra disappeared is back. Suddenly, staying at Avery's doesn't sound so bad. If I turned around now, I could be back there in—

I hit with a sickening crunch of metal on metal. The airbag deploys with an explosive rush of air and powder and noise, knocking my head back against the headrest with tremendous force. Then I'm ricocheting forward toward the steering wheel, bouncing off the rough textured airbag, the skin on my cheek flaying off with the impact. I have a fleeting thought that if my face hit the bag dead on, my nose would have been smashed flat.

Then, just as quickly, the bag deflates. The car's engine stalls and cuts out. I rock in the seat, holding my head in my hands, trying to collect my thoughts. When I open my eyes to see what the hell I hit, all I see through the shattered windshield is smoke curling from the ruined engine.

And?

A shadow, curling toward me like another wisp of smoke. Formless, faceless until a slit opens and a sound like distant thunder fills my head.

Ihave him. You can't help. Go back.

I climb out, legs shaking with the effort. Have who? Culebra?

But the apparition is gone. The only smoke is the black plume from the engine. I smell hot oil and gasoline. I have to hang on to the side of the car to propel myself forward. Where did it go? What did I hit? Eyes search, first the air, then the ground. I expect to see something—an animal, a deer maybe, fallen beneath the tires.

But there's nothing.

Nothing.

I hold out my hands, groping like a blind man to understand what could have caused the collision.

At first, I'm flailing at air. Then, I feel it.

I suck in a breath, laying both hands flat against—I don't know what—but it stopped my car as surely as any brick wall would have.

With one big difference.

This wall is invisible.

AN INVISIBLE WALL? THE WITCH'S DOING? MUST be. I've made the trek into Beso de la Muerte on this very road a hundred times. I'm pretty sure I would have remembered if there had been a wall. I knew there was some kind of spell protecting the place, but this spell almost gave me a concussion.

Why is it here now? And why tell me that she has Culebra? If she thinks that will make me go away, she doesn't know me very well.

I slump back against the car. Smoke is still curling up from under the hood and both front tires are flat. The hood is folded back like an accordion. No sense in even trying to start the damned thing.

Resuming my blind mouse act, I feel my way to the right about a hundred feet from the car. The barrier stretches on. The same to the left. I stretch up on tiptoes, but can't feel a top to the thing, either. It's as smooth as plastic to the touch and about the same temperature as the air.

I return to the car and lean against the passenger side door to review my options. If I call Williams, what are the chances he takes my call? I'd guess pretty slim. He may have even set this up. It's his style for sure. Strand me in the middle of nowhere to keep me out of trouble. I doubt even the special effects would be beyond him, although he'd know the hint of Culebra in trouble would be enough to spur me on to Beso de la Muerte, not discourage me from trying. No, this can't be Williams' doing.

I think David would come get me, providing I could pry him away from Gloria on her big day. But that would involve explaining what I'm doing out in the middle of a Mexican dirt road in a rental car that's just smashed into an invisible wall.

Call a tow truck? I doubt an American company would drive out here and a Mexican company would most likely hold the car for ransom if they'd even venture this far from Tijuana. 'Course, it would serve Williams right if he ended up having to pay for the car. It could get sticky for me, though, too, if it's discovered I'm carrying phony ID.