Chosen
CHAPTER 27

Mrs. Williams and I wait in silence for Frey to arrive. I keep my thoughts hidden, just in case she's figured out that she heard me in her head. She's not a stupid woman. Her husband kept her in the dark about the telepathic connection between vampires and other supernaturals. Once she spends time with Frey and Culebra, though, I have no doubt she'll pick up the trick quickly.
I wonder how she'll react to the realization that Williams was reading her every thought? I know how I'd react.
It's the equivalent of mental rape. No matter how much I loved the guy, it would alter the grieving process considerably.
When Frey and Layla arrive, I'm subjected to the same hypercritical appraisal of my home by Layla as I was by Mrs. Williams. It's even more intense with Layla, since she happens to be an interior designer. Before she even says hello, or acknowledges Mrs. Williams, she says, "Not bad, Anna. Could use a professional's touch-your furniture is a little dykish. And you could use some artwork on the walls." She turns my way with a condescending smile. "I'd be happy to help."
Ire rises along with the hair on the back of my neck. Frey intervenes. I don't know what he says to her, but she turns green cat eyes on him wide with innocence. I am being nice. I offered my services.
He closes his eyes a moment in what looks like an attempt to control his exasperation and pushes past her. He extends a hand to Mrs. Williams. "I'm Daniel Frey. I'm sorry for your loss."
She takes his hand, her expression once again riddled with confusion. She must have heard the exchange between Frey and Layla and still can't comprehend why. "You are vampire?"
"No." Frey's voice is soft with understanding and compassion, the same voice he'd use with a troubled student. "I am a shape-shifter. So is Layla. We can communicate with you telepathically. Vampires and shape-shifters have that ability. You'll get used to it soon, I promise."
An appreciation of why she wasn't aware of her telepathic powers is blossoming in Mrs. Williams mind. We all feel it. The beginning of doubt as to her husband's motives. Curiosity about what other powers she might have that he neglected to tell her about. A spark of anger.
Still, she summons the strength to temper those thoughts. She hasn't learned to cloak them. Yet. But she is wise enough to know the three beings in the room with her are privy to what's going on in her head. Instead, she concentrates on where Frey and his Barbie doll girlfriend are about to take her.
Layla's mouth turns down in consternation at being classified a "Barbie" doll. She doesn't have an exaggerated hourglass figure; she's thin as a reed. But she does have pouty good looks, and with that long hair cascading down her back, it's easy to make the comparison.
Layla sees the smile that quirks the corner of my mouth.
She shoots me a venomous look. Watch it. We're here to do you a favor.
Mrs. Williams looks flustered when she catches Layla's remark to me. She clears her throat in a nervous attempt to draw attention away from her gaffe. "Where are we going? Anna never told me."
Frey, too, is suddenly anxious to put distance between Layla and me. "We're taking you to a place where you can safely feed." He ushers her toward the door with a hand at her elbow, crooking a finger at Layla. Layla follows with another black look in my direction. Once he has them both started for the car, Frey turns back to me.
"Are you going to be all right by yourself?"
"Yes." After this morning, by myself is a welcome relief. "Lance will be home by noon."
Frey doesn't question or argue. The basis of his concern is that Williams was a threat as long as I refused to cooperate with him. It follows then that with Williams gone, the threat should be, too. Frey has no way of knowing my suspicions about the part Underwood played in William's death. With Mrs. Williams here, there was never an opportunity to discuss it and now, what purpose would it serve except to add yet another reason for him to worry about me? I wave him off and watch until the car pulls from the curb. Mrs. Williams' determined face stares out at me from the backseat.
Once they are gone, my thoughts turn to what I should do next. I know of only one way to contact Underwood-at his place in La Quinta. It takes me a moment to get the number and another moment to be connected.
I should have known it would not be this easy. The receptionist tells me Underwood checked out yesterday afternoon.
Of course he did.
Not getting his cell number was a stupid and negligent oversight on my part. I depended on Williams to be my contact. Now, I can only wait for Underwood to contact me.
Which is problematic. It will be hard to explain skipping out alone with Lance playing guard dog. I had hoped to meet with Williams yesterday or this morning before Lance got back to town.
Fuck. Nothing is ever easy.
With two hours to kill before noon, restlessness once again comes to roost on my shoulders like a leaden yoke. If I go to the office, I might at least have the distraction of a telephone call from a potential client. It doesn't take me long to decide anything-even work-is better than sitting around.
The office is closer to the airport, too, so more convenient when Lance calls that he's arrived. I leave a voice message on his cell letting him know where I'll be.
Mind made up, I'm on the road in five minutes.
* * * *
It's another postcard-perfect day in sunny San Diego. The water sparkles, the blue sky shimmers cloudless and bright, the harbor is so full of boats it looks like a floating traffic jam.
A day like this, it's a joy just to be near the water. I feel it even here on the deck outside our office.
Maybe I should buy a boat. No one can sneak up on you on a boat. Lance and I could anchor in the bay, stranding Underwood and his fortune-telling on shore. Maybe if I let the anniversary of my becoming vampire pass unnoticed, so would the prophecies. Let some other poor soul take on the mantle of the Chosen One.
Williams may be dead, but his goddamned legacy is as burdensome as Avery's. When I should be mournful that a two-hundred-year-old vampire just flamed out of existence, instead I can't let go of the animosity. If he'd been honest with me in the beginning, he wouldn't be dead.
"Williams, you fucker. It's all your fault."
"Talking to yourself now?"
The voice at my elbow startles me so much, the vampire reacts before the human. Teeth bare, a snarl erupts, and I have a neck in my hands in the time it takes my eyes to register to whom the voice belongs.
Lance. Here. Safe. My hands drop from the neck to the small of his back so I can pull him even closer.
"Damn, Lance, you scared me. I thought you were going to call when you got in."
He presses his body against mine. "It's only a ten-minute jog from the airport. It'd take you longer to get there by car."
His lips are so close, his body heat rising so quickly, it takes all my willpower not to pull his clothes off and fuck him senseless right here on the deck. Instead, exercising great restraint, I pull him into the office, sweep everything on David's side of the desk to the floor, and we fuck each other senseless inside.
* * * *
The sound of approaching footsteps from outside clears our heads and startles us upright quicker than a splash of ice water on a sunburned back. Lance and I look at each other, then toward the door.
The door we hadn't bothered to lock.
This is a place of business.
Good thing we can move fast.
Giggling like school kids, we scramble into our clothes, put the desk back in order and stand looking innocently and expectantly toward the door.
The footsteps stop. There's a moment of silence.
Then an envelope drops through the mail slot.
Lance releases a breath. "Mailman."
He walks over and picks up the envelope and hands it to me.
I slip it on the blotter, drop into the chair on David's side of our partner's desk, motion Lance into my chair. We grin at each other, enjoying the afterglow of sex and adrenaline.
I ask, "How'd the shoot go?"
Lance waves the question aside with a flip of a hand. "Fine." He leans toward me, remembering what he'd intended to ask before desire trumped rational thought. "I want to know what the hell is going on here. I didn't see the headline about Williams until I landed."
The joy of the previous moment is erased by the concern on Lance's face. Carefully, I draw a curtain on my real thoughts and fill him in on the visitors I had this morning. First Harris and then Mrs. Williams.
"Jesus," he says when I finish. "You don't really think Williams committed suicide, do you? And what was he doing in the desert?"
Once again, I have to compose my thoughts. Lance has no idea Williams was with Underwood in Palm Springs. I shrug. "Maybe Frey was right when he said we were followed to Palm Springs. Whoever followed us may have reported to Williams and he was on his way to intercept us."
"Still doesn't explain how he ended up dead."
"No. It doesn't."
I've been toying with the envelope I'd thrown on the desk as I spin my tale. I reach into a drawer and pull out a letter opener, more a diversionary tactic than interest in the contents. When I slit it open, a single folded sheet of copy paper falls out.
Lance has picked up the thread of our conversation. "What's going to happen to Mrs. Williams now? I can't believe the bastard turned her and didn't teach her anything about being a vampire."
His words register in my head; I think I actually nod in reply. But my attention is caught by the four words printed in bold caps on the paper I hold in my hand:
TONIGHT. MIDNIGHT.
BE READY.
I'd been wondering when Underwood would get in touch. I have my answer.
Lance peers at me, eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
I shake my head, slip the paper into a desk drawer, toss the envelope into the wastebasket. "Nothing." I push my chair back, stand up. "Let's go to the cottage."
He stands, too, but gestures toward the drawer. "What was in the envelope?"
I take his arm and turn him toward the door. "Just a reminder from David. He's out of town, but we have a new partner and I'll be working with her for the first time tonight."
"New partner? When did that happen?"
I fill him in about Tracey. Most of what I tell him is the truth. Except, of course, the part about having a job tonight.
That's a lie.