Jeanne Stein: The Watcher

This night will be different.

Fisher pauses, lets go with one hand to fumble with his belt. It's all the hesitation I need.

I jerk my hands free and fling him off, not giving him even a moment to recover before I've reversed our positions. He's beneath me now, his hands pinned behind his back by the weight of our bodies.

He's grinning. You like to be on top. That's okay with me. But you'll have to open my collar. I can't seem to reach it.

His words mock me. It's all right. I smile back and do as he asks.

He squirms, positioning his pelvis against the fabric of my panties. I feel his excitement. It sickens me. Just like the thoughts he's projecting and the lust that burns my skin like acid wherever his flesh touches mine.

Come on. Let me in.

His tone is the high-pitched plea of a demanding child.

Iwant to drink a little first, I tell him. Get in the mood.

Irritation sparks along with the beginnings of anger. He raises his head to glare at me. No. We fuck first.

I leverage myself against him, forcing his head back on the sand with the heel on my hand. No. I drink first.

For the first time, he realizes that I'm stronger than he is, that he is not in control. He reacts predictably, struggling and cursing.

Like a cat with a wounded bird, I play with him. Let him try to wriggle out from under me, to work his hands free. I want him to feel the same helplessness his victims felt, know some of their desperation and fear. He tries to probe my mind, asking if this is a game. I swat away his attempts to read my thoughts. He is baffled with the turn this thing has taken.

What are you doing?

A smile. Why, I'm playing with you. Isn't this what you like? I bring my knee up into his groin. Press down until I see his face twist. Pain. Terror. Helplessness. Isn't this what gets you off?

He gasps. Tries to burrow his body into the sand to release the pressure. When he realizes he can't, he bucks against me. You bitch. You tricked me. I'll kill you for this.

From far away, I hear the faint howl of a siren. It's time to end it.

His skin is salty to my tongue. When he feels my teeth at his neck, his body relaxes, his thoughts flash that this is more like it. He presses his engorged sex against me and starts to move to the rhythm of his heartbeat. I open his throat with a single bite and start to drink.

He thinks he's won. He tells me again to let him in, demands sex. It's not until I refuse, refuse to stop feeding, refuse sex, refuse to give him access to my neck, that he realizes what is happening.

By then it is too late. It doesn't take long. I'm caught up in the hunger. He grows weak, his thoughts diffuse, froth, like foam on the crest of a wave. All the pain and death he's inflicted on his victims flows into me. The horror trips a gag reflex, but I can't stop. Even when he's a shell, a brittle husk, I keep sucking until I feel it. The shudder as his soul is released. Only then can I stop. Only then is the life force gone. Only then do I sit up, climb off his body and collapse on the sand.

There is still one more thing. I roll on my side to look at Fisher's face. When a vampire dies the second death, by staking or burning, he dissolves into dust. There's nothing left. Being drained is different and results in a kind of fast-forward aging. If Williams were to die like this, for instance, his two-hundred-year-old body would shrivel into something that might resemble a mummy's. Fisher, though, had only been vampire for ten years. His face and body look like that of a forty-year-old man.

I have to make it look as if a human killed him. I draw the knife from the sheath at my waist and slice across Fisher's jugular. I work at the bite marks with the serrated edge, opening a wide gash to hide them. A few drops of some clear liquid bubble from the wound. I then grab his ankles and pull his body into the water. I wade out a few feet from shore holding onto him until the current catches his body and carries it away. I want the sea to batter the remains, though it won't be a problem if the police have enough to determine cause of death. I doubt they'll waste serious manpower over the demise of a serial killer wanted in several states.

Now it's over.

I'm wet, bone weary, and sick inside from the infusion of Fisher's blood. If I were human, I'd stick a finger down my throat and vomit until my system was rid of the poison. But vampire physiology doesn't work like that. His blood is already coursing through my system. I'm stuck with it until I can purge it another way.

Brushing sand from my torn clothes, I start up the path.

The sirens are closer. Fisher's victim must have called for help. I need to be gone before anyone arrives. But Williams and I are going to have a talk.

A stake would have been so much easier.

I HEAD FOR HOME PLOTTING HOW QUICKLY I CAN get to Beso de la Muerte. Fisher's blood bums through my system. But I know I have to check in with David first and after our late night in San Francisco, I doubt he'll be in before ten. Unlike me, David is not a morning person.

My cell phone rings just as I'm walking in the front door. I flip it open. "Anna Strong."

"Hey, partner."

David's voice is cheery and much too alert for this early in the morning. "David?"

"When are you coming in?"

"You're at the office already?" I may be able to get away earlier than I expected.

A chuckle. "Don't sound so shocked. How soon can you get here?"

I glance down at my wet, bedraggled form and torn clothes. "I haven't even showered yet."

"Well, get to it, girl. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise? What kind of surprise?"

"If I told you, it would spoil it. See you in a few."

He rings off and I'm listening to dead air. The enthusiasm I felt over the possibility of getting to Culebra's early vanishes with the suspicion that I'm going to hate his surprise. I always do. They usually involve his girlfriend, Gloria. For a man who is smart and sexy and a great business partner, his taste in women sucks. To make matters worse, he's oblivious to the fact that we hate each other.

I look around my sun-filled cottage. I want to take a shower, a long, hot shower, and fall into bed.

I heave a sigh and toss the phone onto the couch. Oh well, one out of two isn't bad. Before starting upstairs, I flip on the coffeemaker. I don't care what David's surprise is, it can wait until I've washed Fisher's foul taste from my mouth and off my body.

The shower revives me though I scrub so hard, my skin tingles when I'm through. I lather on a rich, perfumed body lotion and slip into a clean sweat suit to head downstairs for coffee.

I'm a purist when it comes to coffee, no flavored blends for me. I like the rich, dark taste and aroma of a Jamaican or Kona coffee, mellowed with real cream and a little sugar.

I fill a mug and take it back upstairs. I've only been back in the cottage a month. It burned to the ground not long ago, another of Avery's legacies. When I rebuilt it, I added a deck off the master bedroom. I furnished it with a wicker table and two chairs, though I've yet to have anybody up here to occupy the second. I sink into one now and cast a glance toward the empty one. It seems I've more than one itch that needs scratching. I've fed, in a matter of speaking, but a different kind of hunger remains. My sexual appetite is as strong as my appetite for blood.

I selfishly wish Max were here. Except for the one time when I scared myself by almost drinking from him, sex with Max is great. But what am I thinking? I've got to stop this. I'm breaking up with Max the next chance I get. I have to.

So then what? Maybe David's surprise is a hot friend who just got into town and David wants to set us up. Maybe I should wear something sexy to the office. Maybe …