The Watcher

I LEAVE THE BAR AND HEAD BACK TO SAN DIEGO. I told Culebra that I was seeing Williams this morning. Warren Williams is San Diego's chief of police. Only he's so much more than that. Williams is a vampire, a very old vampire, who also happens to be San Diego's chief of police. The real-life, honest-to-god chief of police.

For weeks now, I've hauled my butt out of bed at four thirty to join him at his unofficial office in Balboa Park, a kind of secret headquarters for San Diego's supernatural community. I've started working for him as part of his "Watcher" brigade. We keep an eye on the supernatural community and step in when necessary to protect both creatures like myself and our human counterparts. Sometimes we do just what our name implies, watch, but other times...

I park in front of the Museum of Art and start up El Prado. It's a spooky place in the cold dark of early morning. The only thing breaking the shadows is the dim fluorescence of tall streetlamps bordering the parking lot. But fog snakes around the top of the lights and slithers at my feet. Even the towers and ornate cornices cast ghostly images on the walkway. Vamps aren't afraid of the dark. Exactly. But since becoming one, I am acutely aware that there really are things that go bump in the night. I quicken my pace.

Hide in plain sight.

The phrase pops into my head as I approach the mystical waterfall that separates the entrance to the underground hideaway from an unsuspecting public. I step through, not entirely a pleasant sensation unless you like walking through cold, wet spider webs. I don't know much about the magic that makes it work, but I do know that once on the other side, I'm invisible to anyone walking past.

I fish around in the bottom of my bag for the shiny brass key that allows me to open the door I'm now facing. On the other side is a reception area with a desk on which sits a computer. A few keystrokes and the entire "office" turns into an elevator that whisks me downward.

No matter how many times I do this, I'm amazed every time. It's Mission Impossible meets Stargate.

And the comparisons continue once inside.

The elevator opens onto a large, open space filled with desks and populated, even at this early hour, by the league of human psychics whose work funds the operation. Perched on the corner of one of the desks, head bent in conversation with a woman I don't recognize, is someone I do.

"Good morning, Sorrel," I say.

The woman turns and flashes a smile, her calm blue eyes taking their measure of me. She reminds me of Cinderella, tall, wispy, blond. But this Cinderella is dressed to the nines in a Donna Karan power suit and Jimmy Choos. Her expression reminds me of a cat's, testing the air, reading it, until she gets the answer she's searching for. "Good morning, Anna. Didn't get to bed last night, did we?"

Sorrel is blind, though you wouldn't know it to watch her. She's also an empath. "One of these days you're going to have to teach me that trick."

She laughs. "Trick? No. It's a talent. And like most talents, all it takes is practice and concentration." She flutters manicured ringers. "It's all in the air, Anna. You need only to channel it."

I mimic her fluttering fingers. "So my staying up all night was out there floating in the ether?"

"No, but your weariness is. That's what I feel. I can make it better, you know."

Her gift is to bestow serenity. She tried it on me once. It worked. It also erased the edge I need to do the things I do. For me to survive, that's not an option.

I don't need to explain this to her, she knows and understands.

Sorrel smiles. "It's always nice to see you, Anna."

Even without trying, her gift comes through. Her smile lifts my spirits.

She turns back to the conversation I interrupted and I make my way to the offices that line the rear wall. Williams' door is open and he looks up briefly at my approach and waves me in before returning to his reading.

Williams is seated behind a metal desk, his head bent in concentration. He's tall, lean, looks fiftyish because he has his dark hair professionally streaked with gray. Today he's not wearing cop clothes but jeans, a brown leather bomber jacket, a pair of worn Nikes on his feet and a pink polo shirt.

A pink shirt?

He looks up from the paper he had been studying and touches a hand self-consciously to his chest, frowning. It was a gift from my wife. What's wrong with it?

Williams' wife is human. She knows her husband's true nature and accepts it. There are many in the supernatural community "married" to mortals, a concept I can't quite wrap my head around. Still, it strikes me as amusing that this powerful old vamp is concerned that I'm disparaging his wife over the color of a shirt. Amusing and touching, at the same time.

He reads all this because I let my thoughts project to him. I happen to like pink. His tone is just this side of defensive.

I raise an eyebrow and drop into a chair. It's definitely your color.

His expression softens. "Love," he says, "makes a vampire do strange things." Then he looks at me, really looks at me for the first time. He lets the paper drop onto the desk and frowns at me. "You need to feed. And you've had no sleep for twenty-four hours. I need you sharp, Anna. Particularly today. Now I'm not sure I can trust you with this assignment."

The hair on my neck bristles. Does he have a direct line to Sorrel? "I can handle any assignment you throw at me. I think I've proven that."

He holds up a conciliatory hand, but the grim expression remains unchanged. "The rogue I'm sending you after is powerful and crafty. He's attributed with many deaths. He's only been a vampire for ten years but he killed as a human and his taste for it has grown with his power. He is operating in San Diego now and attracting the attention of the Revengers. We need to get to him fast."

The Revengers are a secret organization of human avengers whose sole purpose is to seek out and kill vampires. If this rogue is in their sights, why not let them pull the trigger?

He frowns. That should be obvious, Anna. The Revengers don't discriminate between those in our community who are good and those who are not.

He's right. When I had been a vampire only one day, they almost got me.

And there is a second obvious reason: if we are seen as weak and unable to police our own, it strengthens their resolve that they should.

He's glaring at me again. "But this one won't be easy to kill, especially if you're not up to it."

This time I temper my reply. "All right. I admit I haven't had any sleep and I do need to feed. But I can use both to my advantage." I let him read what happened with our skip in San Francisco. "The blood drive is strong in me today."

Williams closes his thoughts to me, studies me with gray green eyes as fathomless as the ocean. You are waiting too long between feedings, he says at last.

I wave a hand. Perhaps. It 't be helped. I went to Beso de la Muerte, but there were no hosts.

He responds with a growl of disapproval. Anna, you must stop this. Get a human host of your own, male or female, and stick with the one. It's the only way to protect yourself and stay strong.

It's been three months since I was turned, and it seems like I've heard this same thing every damned day. It grows tiresome. Maybe after a hundred years, I'll be comfortable with the idea that I should keep a human around to feed from once or twice a month like some pet.

Maybe.

But I don't think so. I let my irritation show.

Can we please get back to the job?

I expect another heated torrent about my feeding habits. To my surprise and relief, however, Williams lets it go. An indication how important stopping this rogue must be.

He hands me a piece of paper with a police artist's sketch of a man in his late forties, light skin, dark eyes, gray hair brushed back from a thin face. "Simon Fisher," he says. "Five foot nine, 175 pounds. Wanted in three states. He brought his last two victims to the hidden caves in La Jolla. You know the place?"

I look up from the sketch and nod. "Can I find him there now?"

Williams glances at his watch. "If my sources are correct, he'll be there within the hour. He was spotted leaving his apartment with a female twenty minutes ago. He likes to kill them at dawn."

I fold the paper and shove it into a pocket in my jeans. I'd better go.

Williams rises when I do. Be careful, Anna. He's shrewd and he's powerful. And, Anna, you must leave his body.

His eyes are serious. He's telling me I can't stake the bastard. I've only had to do this once before and I remember what it was like.

Can you handle it?

I blow out a breath. I know why leaving a body is important. It allows the police to close the case and the victims' grieving families to get closure. But the cost to the vampire who is performing this public service is high. I feel my stomach start to churn.

Still, I nod. I do this to learn to control the beast and to understand the consequences if I should fail.

I'm at the door to the office when my thoughts turn to Max. I look back at Williams. "Do you have any contacts at the DEA?"

"I'm the police chief of a major metropolitan city. I have contacts everywhere."

I think I've offended him. Vampires, especially old ones, seem to be very thin-skinned. I frown an apology and ask, "Can you check on someone for me?"

He doesn't answer, but waves his hand in a "get on with it" gesture.

Quickly, I fill him in on Max and what he's involved in. "I'd like to know more about Martinez. He seems to be eluding both the Feds and the Mexican Federales. Maybe I can do something to help."

Williams tilts his head, his annoyance gone. "I'd forgotten about Max. He may be just what you need."

"Will you forget about what I need? I asked about Martinez."

Again, the dismissive wave of a hand. "I'll see what I can find out."

His attitude makes it obvious his only concern for Max is how he can be of use to me. I'm not going to argue the point now. There's a damsel to rescue, and this Wonder Woman doesn't have an invisible jet. I have to travel across town in a car.