Chosen (19 page)

He shows me the same blank expression as when I asked how I got here. “It is not up to us to question the ways of the gods. Maju told us what to do—how to prepare for the ceremony. We did as he asked.”

There is no outrage. Not even a spark of confusion or doubt. This man believes he did nothing wrong.

Now what?

“How far are we from an airport?”

That
question, at least, allows Zuria to respond like a rational human being. “Not far. There is an airport in Biarritz.”

The impression lasts barely as long as it takes him to answer. A shadow darkens his face. “You are leaving? What are we to do?”

There are so many ways I want to answer that question—most involving various body parts. Instead, I take a moment to choose my words carefully.

“First, you are to take me to the airport. Then you will return to your homes and forget what happened here. The one you called Maju was a false prophet. Keep vigilant. When the time is right, I will be back with my true consort. Do you understand?”

Hope shines from Zuria’s eyes. “You will not punish us for Maju?”

Hopefully the law will do that when they discover the body inside the cave. As for Underwood? Trying to explain his desiccated corpse will merely change the nature of the plea from murder to insanity.

I shake my head. “No. This man who pretended to be Maju was a powerful sorcerer. But you must heed my words. No more ceremonies. Live your lives quietly and in peace with the world. Wait. For my return.”

The words are so much garbage. I expect someone in the group to challenge what I’ve said. Instead, the reaction is one of relief. They gather their personal belongings from the floor of the cave and prepare to go. They are chatting amongst themselves as if coming from a church social instead of having just participated in an ancient ritual that left their deity, Maju, not to mention one of their own, dead at the hands of a vampire.

I look around in bewilderment.

Unbelievable.

Unfuckingbelievable.

 

I’VE NEVER BEEN TO BIARRITZ.

When we exit the cave, we are looking down on a beach. Five-foot waves kiss a pearlescent shoreline. It is a clear, moonless night and a half dozen surfers take advantage of the well-formed breakers. The sight provokes a spasm of longing for home—for my cottage. A broad boardwalk is lined with people watching the surfers perform, and I remember another bit of web-generated trivia: Biarritz is an ocean town bordering the Atlantic, a well-known surfing beach.

Cafés and bistros sparkle under strings of twinkling lights. Music floats upward. I see all this from a vantage point that has us facing a lighthouse with a statue perched on a nearby rocky promontory.

Zuria follows my gaze. “That is you, Mari,” he breathes with quiet reverence.

Somehow, I believe it is Mari only in his deluded mind. More likely a statue of a better-known protectorate. My defunct Catholic training stirs in my memory. The Virgin Mary.

The group scatters once we are out of the cave. Each one passes me with a bowed head and some kind of prayerful entreaty. Some try to take my hand. I step back out of reach.

Once just Zuria and I remain, I look around. We appear to be on a walking path whose direction takes us away from the shoreline. It must be close to the trailhead because I already hear car engines starting up.

“How far to the airport?”

Zuria motions me to follow him. I step in line with him and ask again. “How far to the airport?”

He seems reluctant to answer the question. “It would be a bad idea for you to play with me, Zuria. I want to go home. I’ll only ask you nicely once more. How far are we from the airport?”

He wipes a hand across his mouth. “Not far, Goddess. But that is not the problem.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What is the problem?”

He glances at his watch. “It is almost two in the morning. The airport doesn’t open on Saturday until five thirty. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t offer you the hospitality of my home until you could be accommodated.”

I almost laugh at the suggestion. Spend time in this crazy bastard’s home? I’d sooner sleep—

Then the implication of what he said hits me.

I glance at my wrist. Where my watch should be. The Rolex my family gave me last Christmas.

Another spasm of frustration and anger flares through me. My watch is gone.

Bad enough. But that’s not what’s triggering the reaction. Shock. Confusion.

If it’s Saturday, the anniversary of my becoming is past.

I take mental inventory. I feel the same.

Flex muscles. Nothing.

Glance down. No wings have sprouted. I’m not glowing or shimmering. My body appears normal.

For a moment, I’m so relieved I almost forget where I am and how I got here. I throw back my head and laugh.

Zuria watches with a puzzled frown. “Goddess? Are you all right?”

Better than all right.

It’s over.

Williams. Julian Underwood. Their crazy notion of a destiny.

The euphoric feeling that I am free lasts only as long as it takes vampire to push herself into my thoughts.

Not over.

Not yet.

Don’t forget Lance.

D
ESPITE ZURIA’S OBJECTIONS, I CONVINCE HIM TO drop me off at the airport. It is not lost on me that I have no money, no passport, not even a change of clothes. I need the time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

As I get out of his battered Citroën, Zuria reaches into the backseat and hands me a jacket.

My leather jacket.

“The young one left this for you,” he says.

I take it. Wonder when Lance had time to think of a jacket? Was it before he drugged me or when he was stripping me naked for Underwood and his band of loonies?

Zuria’s reluctance to go manifests itself in a drumming of fingertips on the steering wheel and an expression of sadness that borders on tearful. I finally have to turn away before he puts the car in gear.

“Come back to us soon, Goddess,” he says.

Yeah. Don’t hold your breath. I walk toward the terminal and, finally, hear the clutch engage as the car roars off. The trailing noxious plume of burning motor oil tickles my nose and burns my eyes.

I shrug into the jacket, almost regretting it as soon as it settles over my shoulders. Lance’s smell wafts up. He must have worn it. The urge to take it off and throw it away is powerful, but damn it, I
like
this jacket. I’ll have it fumigated as soon as I get back home.

The building I’m facing is low-slung and utilitarian. Quiet. I can’t see anyone moving around inside. It’s not big as far as international airports go. There is a small grassy park in front of the terminal and I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the grass while I review my options.

The obvious first option would be to call my folks.

The drawbacks to that are just as obvious. How do I explain being in France with no money, no passport and no notice?

Shit.

If there’s an American consulate somewhere in the vicinity, they may be able to help with money and an emergency visa so I can get out of here.

But I’ll need a story. What story can I use? That I was mugged?

That could explain no wallet and no passport. But what about when they ask me where I’ve been staying? And if I notified the police?

Lance. This is all your fault.

What the hell were you thinking?

How did you get away? If the airport was closed, did you have a car stashed nearby?

For a moment, I’m awash in depression. Drowning in a pool of sorrow, a sense of loss.

The moment passes quickly. Anger swallows it up.

No time for angst.

In frustration, I shove my hands in the pockets of the jacket.

Freeze as my fingers close around—

From the right pocket, I pull my watch.

From the left, an envelope.

I slip the Rolex on my wrist, fasten it before looking at the envelope.

Lance’s handwriting.

 

 

I don’t want to feel what washes over me. Regret. Sadness. I want to feel only anger. The man who claimed he loved me delivered me to Underwood, then watched while he violated me. What excuse could he offer that would allow me to forgive such treachery?

Something shifts in the envelope. Curiosity makes me tear it open. I withdraw two folded sheets. When I open them, a small key falls to the grass. For the moment, I ignore the key, eyes drawn reluctantly to the familiar script.

My hand crushes the letter into a ball.

Love. My only consolation is that I never told the bastard that
I
loved
him
. A small, meaningless triumph but a satisfying one nonetheless.

I look around for the key that fell from the envelope when I withdrew the letter and pluck it from the grass. It’s a slender, brass key with a numbers printed on the head.

A locker key.

For the first time since I awakened in the cave, I feel a glimmer of hope. If this is what I think it is, Lance may have earned himself a quick death instead of a long, painful one.

 

AT FOUR THIRTY PEOPLE START FILTERING INTO THE airport. Uniformed pilots and flight attendants and security people, and then the less obvious cadre of reservationists and gate attendants and janitors in one-piece jumpsuits. At five thirty, promptly, the doors are opened to a small group of customers who, like me, are waiting to be on their way.

In my halting French, I ask one of the security guards where I can find the
casiers
. He points down a hall at the end of the ticket counter.

The number on the key is 118. When I find the locker, insert the key and see what’s inside, a thrill of relief washes over me.

Wallet. Credit cards. Passport.

Another note.

Another grievance to add to the list. The bastard used my own plane to transport me here. What did they tell security when they manhandled me off? That I was incapacitated by what? Illness? Did they say I was infectious to avoid close scrutiny?

No matter now. I find the VIP lounge and enlist the help of a trim, sophisticated young woman who speaks perfect English. She assures me that she will have no trouble making the necessary arrangements to secure a crew and have my plane readied for the trip home. She hands me a manifest to look over and sign.

The cost is staggering. I could have flown round trip commercially a dozen times in first class for far less. When I prepare to offer a credit card, however, she waves it aside.

“No, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Turner took care of it. He paid in advance. I’m afraid it will take several hours, however, before all is ready. You are welcome to stay here. Food and drink are available in the bar. Spa facilities are through the door in back. You may shower and change if you wish.”

I nod my thanks and turn away. A shower sounds good. You have no idea how dirty you can feel until a demon in a man suit rubs himself all over you.

I noticed a few shops on my way to the VIP lounge so I head there now. Like the airport in San Diego there aren’t any clothing stores. No designer boutiques. Not even the equivalent of a Gap. I end up buying a little tangerine-colored beach cover-up that will have to do as a dress and a pair of sandals at a surf shop called Quiksilver.

Not exactly my style. When I hold it up, the dress hits mid-thigh .

At least it’s clean.

 

IT TAKES A LITTLE OVER THREE HOURS BEFORE I’M finally allowed to board. The pilot and copilot are American.