The Watcher

MY FOOT JAMS THE ACCELERATOR AND THE JAG lurches forward as if it, too, can't wait to get away.

I don't scare easily. Didn't when I was human, and as a vampire, I can count on one hand the number of times my skin has crawled the way it is now.

But what just happened is freaking me out.

A human woman disappears into thin air. Culebra gone, his hideout emptied. A shadow not cast by anything I could see, moving of its own volition across the road and into the desert. A feeling that I'm being driven out of Beso de la Muerte by a malevolent spirit that hovers just out of reach, ready to manifest itself if I should make the mistake of turning back.

I don't. I'm not sure I could.

The panic recedes as I drive farther away from Beso de la Muerte. My grip on the steering wheel relaxes, my head clears, my heart rate slows. The relief is enormous. Brain function returns, rational thinking creeps back, though each thought unfolds slowly like a paper ball released from a tight fist.

Culebra disappeared.

I had no idea shape-shifters could do that.

I chew on the possibility all the way back to San Diego. I know one other shape-shifter, Daniel Frey, but it's a weekday and he'll be teaching now. I'm not going to interrupt his class with my questions. I have too damned many.

I can drop in on him at his condo later.

Which leads me back to why I went to Beso de la Muerte in the first place.

The need to rid myself of Fisher's blood. I can't wait much longer. If I play my cards right, Frey will let me feed from him. We've done it before. It also occurs to me that the panic I felt in Beso de la Muerte might have something to do with the bad blood circulating in my system. I learned the hard way that it's not good to wait too long after feeding from a rogue to cleanse myself. It's vampire dialysis. A dose of untainted blood purges the toxins. And like dialysis, the longer you go without it, the harder it is to separate out the bad stuff and flush it away.

But I've always counted on Culebra. What am I going to do now? He's the link to my blood supply.

The thought sends another chill up my back.

I have no idea when I'll see him again.

My cell phone rings just as I pull into my garage.

I flip it open. "Anna Strong."

There's a moment of dead air before an unfamiliar voice whispers, "Tell your boyfriend. I'm coming."

Then the connection is cut.

It takes me a moment to process what I just heard. When I realize I should check the caller ID, I find the number is restricted. Of course. You can never use star 69 when you need to. I snap the phone closed and toss it into my bag.

Then I get mad.

More than mad. Furious. Because I have a strong feeling I know who made that call. Foley. Counting on spooking me into calling Max or even better, going to see him. Instinct tells me he's sneaky enough to try something like this.

I head into my cottage, looking around for a car I don't recognize. My home is on one of those small streets in Mission Beach where there is no motor vehicle access in front so all the garages open onto an alley. I know everyone on my block. There's not an unfamiliar car in sight.

So, he's probably somewhere on Mission Boulevard. No use looking there. It's one of the most popular beach thoroughfares in San Diego, fronted with restaurants, boutiques, bike and surf shops.

The tumblers on the lock to my back door fall into place with the turn of the key. I push inside, pausing to savor the one good thing in this bitch of a day-my home. The kitchen is filled with sunlight, the air smells of coffee and cinnamon. I toss my purse on the counter and head for the stairs.

Into darkness.

I stop at the foot of the staircase. Someone has pulled the curtains closed, down here and upstairs, too.

I tilt my head, listening. Nothing. I sniff the air. Under the aroma of coffee and the tang of salt air, is something else. Something I hadn't noticed at first. Musk. Testosterone. Senses springing to life, I breathe it in. It's human, I smell the blood. And male.

Is this what Culebra meant when he said he'd taken care of my needs?

But he doesn't have access to my house.

Does he?

I don't care.

Noiseless as a cat, I run up the stairs. Every molecule in my body vibrates in anticipation. I know whoever is here, was sent for one purpose. I know it without understanding, just as I know I'll take what I need and be whole again.

Thank you, Culebra.

He's in my bedroom, asleep. I hear deep, regular breathing. When I approach the bed, I can only make out a form under the covers. He's on his side, his face turned away from me. I'm shaking with need and sudden lust.

I want more than blood.

I strip off my clothes and slide under the covers. He doesn't stir. Should I say something? No. Culebra sent him. He is here for one purpose.

I abandon thought, close my eyes, lose myself in pure tactile sensation. I fit my naked body against his, slide a hand around his waist, breasts pressed against a broad back, thighs cupped around buttocks. I move my hand down a flat abdomen, skim rock-hard thighs, come to rest between his legs.

He's awake now, I sense it, but he doesn't move. He lets my hands arouse him, moans softly in pleasure. I'm on fire. I position myself so that my mouth is at his neck. I want to take him inside me when I feed, but the thirst is too great. I can't help myself, can't stop the hunger from taking over. I open his neck.

Blood flows into my mouth, into my being, flooding me with warmth and consolation. Relief and release. Peace. I feel all Fisher's negative energy fade until he is no longer a part of me. My host feels it, too, the euphoria, the joy. His body burrows against mine, seeking greater closeness, wanting more. This is why humans offer themselves to vampires. We are not yet united physically, but currents of desire shake him as I feed.

The first primal hunger satisfied, I begin to stroke him.

Thank you, Culebra.

Caught in the vortex of pleasure, the man cries out.

"Anna."

My eyes open, my heart races.

He starts to roll toward me. "Anna."

I hold him still, not wanting to face him. I know the voice. I start to shake. I want to pull away, creep back down the stairs, hide until the shaking stops. Because I know the voice. The man beside me, the man whose blood is now commingled with mine, the man I didn't recognize in my lust to feed is Max.

I've just done what I swore I would never do. I've fed from Max.

Without thinking, without consideration. I took what I needed.

Worse, I didn't know it was Max. I didn't recognize his body. Didn't recognize his smell or touch. I didn't try. I didn't care.

Max is still on his side, his eyes closed. He's moaning that he wants more. He takes my hand and pulls me closer. He's violently aroused, not realizing that the pleasure he feels comes not from any human stimulus, but from the act of an animal. The vampire. Me.

I've got to stop it. I've got to close the wound and make it disappear. I've got to make Max forget what he's just experienced.

In a panic, I move closer, lap spilled blood from his neck and chin. Suck gently on his torn skin until I feel the cells repair themselves and nothing physical remains to indicate what I've done. But he'll remember.

Max rolls over, pins me beneath him, forces my legs open with his own. He takes his pleasure the same way I just took mine-aggressively, fiercely. I'm drawn into the current of his need and when it's over, and he collapses against me with a muffled gasp, I know, I know things will never be the same between us.

Because Max has experienced it now, and he will know the difference. Not the reason, he can never know that, but the sensation, the thrill.

Damn you, Culebra.