SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (5 page)

He’d made the decision to come in a split second, because he knew if he thought about it, he’d talk himself out of doing it. And every survival instinct he possessed was telling him now or never. Deal with the shit or let it suck him down so deep he’d never come out.

Chloe Lamont was merely the resounding clap that began the avalanche, the instigator of a collapse long in coming. Reilly either came home and faced his past or he would self-destruct. Simple as that.

But how had she known that Carolina Beck would be the bait that made him snap? What did she know about her or Gracie Beck, her granddaughter?

He turned after the Circle K—run-down but holding on even here—and made his way into downtown Diablo Springs. Feeling pensive, he passed Rough Street and glanced at the fourth house on the left where he’d been raised. Now, it was boarded up and overrun with scrub and, most likely, rodents and bugs. This was the desert and no place on earth was more hospitable to vermin. He’d written a number-one single and two bestsellers about the things that creeped and crawled across the hot sands of Arizona.

At last he parked at the curb in front of the Diablo Springs Hotel, where they’d be staying for the next few days if Chloe could be believed, and just sat there for a moment as memories flashed in his head like the storm in the sky.

Gracie Beck, the girl not quite next door but close enough to walk. She’d been sixteen to his eighteen and she’d lived here with her grandmother. Gracie Beck, so beautiful his heart had clenched whenever he looked at her. He’d known even then that he wasn’t good enough for her, but in his youth he’d thought love was stronger than blood, even bad blood. The night before
The End
, he’d learned otherwise.

Chloe had told him that she’d spoken to Carolina Beck just yesterday and confirmed reservations for herself, her two companions, and one Nathan Reilly Alexander. He would’ve argued, but he sure as hell couldn’t stay in his old house and the Diablo was the only place for a hundred miles in any direction.

The Diablo Springs Hotel might have been considered a hotel in the 1800s when it was built, but by today’s standards it was just a big house with six bedrooms and saggy eaves. Carolina Beck had lived there for her entire life. From where he sat, it looked like a good wind could blow it over, but as a hard gust rocked the SUV, the hotel stood steady, letting him know it was sturdier than it looked.

Lightning sizzled and sparked overhead, turning the windows of the Diablo into jack-o’-lantern eyes. The howling wind pounded the giant mesquite and sucked the grit from the rock and cactus garden along the walkway. On cue, a tumbleweed bounced its way past them to lodge in the neighbor’s fence.

Reilly glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight, but lights blazed on the ground floor, sending a tickle of unease down Reilly’s spine. Carolina Beck was the kind of woman who rose with the sun and worked like a farmer’s wife until dusk. She’d never burned the midnight oil.

The brooding storm intensified the oppressive heat as he climbed out of the Jeep. It felt like he’d stepped into a damp electric blanket with a buzzing short deep within its circuitry. In the distance the ruins of the old hot springs stuck up like black bones against the lightning-struck sky. Reilly squinted as spinning flashes of blue and red whirled against the backdrop. Police cars? He frowned, wondering if the Dead Lights had lured another victim into the cavernous pit of the dried-up springs.

The minivan that had followed him out of Los Angeles pulled up behind his Jeep and the old woman and her two companions piled out. Between Count Lincoln, Father Ghoul, and Chloe the Gypsy Queen, he couldn’t say which of the three was the strangest.

The air held a fetid smell that brought home a million memories. Hot summer nights swimming with his brother, Matt, in Danny Green’s aboveground pool. They’d frozen water in milk jugs and floated them in a vain effort to cool it off. They’d slept on cots in the backyard, braving the bugs for the chance of a breeze. They’d learned the sun could be an enemy. And so could a lightning storm, like the electric light show going on now.

As Reilly grabbed his bag from the back of the SUV, the sharp scent of sulfur joined the loamy smells in the air. No rain yet, just a few sprinkles that seemed to evaporate before they reached earth, leaving a filmy steam that made his skin sticky and the air thick.

Chloe Lamont approached, followed closely by the Count, who Reilly guessed to be her bodyguard or an adopted son . . . or maybe her significant other. Hard to say. He easily topped Reilly’s own six foot two and looked like he might never have seen the sun.

“Nathan,” Chloe said in her soft, mysteriously accented voice. “Do you feel them?”

“No.”

“Liar. I know you sense them. You’ve always sensed them.”

“I sense we’re going to get hit by lightning if we don’t get inside.”

Her grin was smug. He gritted his teeth.

“We’re late,” she said, unconcerned with his prediction. “Not too late, but late. Let’s go in.”

Reilly gave one more glance at the police lights out at the dried-up springs and then followed Chloe and the Count up the walkway. The priest fell in step behind him.

Chloe paused on the porch, looking at him expectantly as he joined her.

“No one home?” he asked.

She gave a shrug that conveyed absolutely nothing. “You go first,” she said. “You’ll have to face . . . Is it Faith?” She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “No, it’s Grace, isn’t it?”

“Gracie?” Reilly glanced at the front door and then back to Chloe.

Chloe gave him an enigmatic smile. “Gracie, yes, of course. You didn’t really think you were through with her, did you?”

“Gracie’s
here
?” he repeated with a step back.

“Not yet.”

It took a moment for common sense to overpower his knee-jerk reaction. He gave a low laugh. “You’ve got your wires crossed, Chloe. Gracie Beck hasn’t been back to Diablo Springs since she took off. She’s never coming back.”

“That’s what they say about you.”

The door swung silently open as a huge bolt of lightning struck nearby with a crack and a hiss, releasing a smattering of raindrops that broke through the vapors. It seemed they should sizzle as they hit the ground below.

A diminutive gentleman in a gray sweater and black trousers stood on the threshold. He gave them a benevolent smile and stood aside for them to enter.

“I wondered if you’d beat the storm,” he said.

Reilly didn’t know who he was, but he seemed at home here.

They filed through the door in twos, like kids using the buddy system for their field trip. Reilly dropped his bags and closed the door behind them. Every light in the house seemed to be on, but there was no sign of life anywhere.

“I’m Jonathan Stevens. Welcome to the Diablo,” he said, holding out a hand. Reilly shook and introduced himself. Then, because it seemed to be expected, he said, “This is Chloe Lamont and . . .”

Abe the Vampire held out his hand. “Bill Barnes.” He flashed a frosty glance at Reilly. “It’s easier to remember than Abraham.”

Reilly’s eyes widened. The guy could read minds?

“Michael,” the priest mumbled, but he didn’t offer to shake. Instead he clasped his gloved hands behind him defensively.

“I’m sorry Ms. Beck isn’t here to greet you,” Jonathan said.

“Where is she?” Reilly asked.

“It’s not my place to say.”

Reilly shot a sideways glance at Chloe. The old woman looked solemnly back.

“Your rooms are ready, however, and I’ll take your bags right up. Feel free to make yourselves at home during your stay. I can make coffee if you’d care for it.”

“No, thanks,” Reilly said and the others declined as well.

They didn’t have a lot of baggage—if you didn’t count the figurative kind—but Reilly moved to help carry it upstairs. When he returned, the others had moved into the front room. Reilly followed, feeling like he was stepping back in time.

“It’s changed, since the last time you were here, no?” Chloe’s voice came deep and melodic and way too close. She was like a spider, creeping up on him.

“I only made it past the porch once,” he muttered.

Although her granddaughter had loved Reilly, Carolina Beck had made no pretense of overlooking his inferiority. Matt and Reilly Alexander gave white trash new standards. The first time Gracie had brought him home had been the last. After that he and Gracie had met in secret.

From that one brief encounter, Reilly remembered the place as being bright and cheery, though. TV-mom clean and neat. In this room, there’d been a serviceable sofa of everyday blue and a matching chair in front of a console television set. Nondescript, outdoorsy paintings had adorned the walls and blue-checked curtains covered the windows. It had looked clean and happy. He’d felt like he sullied the place just be being there.

What he saw now was the opposite of that. A long, gleaming bar stretched the length of the western wall and hard wood tables with stiff, spindle-back chairs filled in the space where that sofa had been. The bar wasn’t stocked—not even a glass waited to be filled behind it and the empty shelves had an eerie feel to them that was almost as disturbing as the strange change in décor.

“Maybe she was trying to bring in tourists with the rustic feel,” he said, confused.

“Maybe,” Chloe answered with a smile that mocked him.

Ornately framed pictures of people long dead perched on yellowed doilies atop the mantel or hung from big heavy frames on the walls. The subjects in the pictures seemed to look out, watching him back as he stared in disbelief. The room was still, the wood dark, the curtains heavy, and the cloying atmosphere smelled of old sex and booze.

Jonathan entered, looking like Mr. Rodgers mistakenly cast in an episode of
Gunsmoke
.

“Ms. Beck remodeled,” Reilly said.

“A few years ago,” Jonathan answered. “Right after I started working for her.”

Carolina had a suspicious nature that didn’t lend itself to live-in help. He was surprised she’d hired Jonathan at all.

“She wanted the Diablo restored to its original glory,” he went on. “All of this came from the attic.”

“Huh.”

Reilly wandered to the fireplace where of a faded picture of four women in various stages of undress hung. The women sat at a table in front of a bar—the bar in this very room, from the looks of it—pinned in place like butterflies on a board by the sharp rays of sunlight cutting through cloudy windows. None of them looked old enough to be in the profession their attire suggested. Until you looked at their disillusioned eyes.

Beyond their circle of light, a scattering of dusty and disreputable men watched, as if picture taking was the most interesting thing to behold. A large black woman stood in the background, balefully eyeing the men watching the women.

Reilly used his sleeve to rub away a smudge on the glass, his gaze caught by one of the women sitting at the table. There was something hauntingly familiar about her clear, light eyes, but it took a full minute before he realized what it was. She looked like Gracie Beck. She looked a
lot
like Gracie Beck had the last time he’d seen her.

She stared back at him, her gaze filled with questions, accusations . . . hurt. He felt trapped by the weight of guilt that look dredged up. Which was stupid. It wasn’t Gracie in the picture and even if it were, Gracie had moved on without a backwards glance. What did he have to feel guilty about?

“Think we could open some windows?” he asked, turning away. “It’s hot in here.”

And obviously, miserly Caroline hadn’t ever put in air conditioning.

The storm had picked up momentum in the short time they’d been there, but it hadn’t brought cooler temperatures. Still, it had to be better than the stale and stifling air inside.

“They don’t open,” Jonathan said calmly.

Doubtful, Reilly tried anyway, but none of them budged. Frustrated, he brushed the dust from his hands when a loud whirring came an instant before the feel of air blowing through a vent.

Air-conditioning. Miracles did happen. He found the thermostat by the swinging door. It seemed anachronistic in its surroundings, but Reilly was relieved it existed at all. He laughed when he saw the control fixed at ninety-five. Leave it to Carolina Beck to install air, but refuse to keep it turned low enough to cool.

“Do you mind?” he asked, not caring if Jonathan did. He moved the lever to sixty-five, knowing she’d go nuts when she found out, but too hot to care.
Sorry, Carolina, but this is hard enough without being steamed alive.

He turned around just as the front door burst open and Gracie Beck, two dogs the size of ponies, and a third drenched ball of fur blew into the room. Reilly’s heart stuttered to a stop as he stared at the woman he’d never been able to forget, no matter how hard he’d tried. And he had. Every damn day since.

She’d always been small—even before he’d filled out and shot up to his six-two height, the top of her head had barely reached his chin. She still was, but age had rounded the sharp angles of her shoulders, added fullness to her breasts, smoothed the slope to her waist. She wore khaki capris that followed the curve of her legs and a black T-shirt that had been dampened by the rain. He could just make out the faint outline of a lace bra. It drew his gaze and started a slow burn from a spark that had never really gone out.

Her soft brown hair was drawn back in a ponytail, but a few wisps escaped to frame her face. Her eyes were still storm-cloud gray, overflowing with the kind of secrets that drove a man insane with wanting to know. But gone was the cocky defiance that had marked Gracie Beck from the cradle. Gone was the devil-may-care smile that had teased him into wet dreams as a teen. In its place was a somberness that had no place on a mouth so soft.

A feeling welled up inside him, as powerful as the winds buffeting the house, as deep as the pitted crevices in the dried-up springs. A longing to touch her, to cup her face and taste her lips, to press his nose to her temple and breathe her in. It caught him unaware and put him on guard. Wary, he braced for her to notice him, too.