Part 19 (2/2)

No kidding. I slip on the headset and adjust the microphone, eyeing the cap. ”Jayne's mom know you have this?”

She doesn't say anything. Probably never saw Serenity. I jam the cap on my head, asking, ”This really pa.s.ses for a helmet?”

”If you're going fast enough.”

Then she proves what she means by gunning away from the curb at fifty miles an hour.

Obviously, cops aren't the concern to Tamara they are to me. She weaves in and out of city traffic, hits the freeway going about eighty and launches that Harley like a rocket once we hit open road. With all that, she doesn't draw as much as a raised eyebrow from the motorists we fly past. It's like we've become invisible.

Once I've gotten used to the breakneck speed, I relax my grip on her waist and sit up straighter.

”It's about time,” she grumbles. ”You were about to cut off my circulation.”

I can hear her loud and clear through the headset but the knit cap offers no protection from the wind. My eyes are soon streaming.

”I feel like an idiot in this cap.”

She doesn't laugh out loud, but I feel her shoulders shake. ”You should see how you look.”

I resist the urge to smack her. ”Not a good idea to p.i.s.s off a vampire,” I growl. ”I could break your neck and take that helmet before your brain knows you're dead.”

She's quiet for a moment, then she blows out a breath. ”Listen, as much as I enjoy trading insults with you, there was a reason I came to see you today. I'm worried about Sandra.”

Not exactly what I wanted to hear. My shoulders tighten, my stomach lurches. ”And you're coming to me because Sandra and I are such good buddies?”

She shakes her head. ”No, I'm coming to you because you're the only one who can save her.”

That does provoke a laugh. ”You can't be serious. Do you know what happened last night? She worked some kind of spell on me.

She had me seeing and hearing things. Things I didn't ever want to see or hear again. I've told everyone I know that I don't want Avery's estate. She can have it. All I want is for that b.i.t.c.h to leave me alone.”

I can't see Tamara's face, but I feel her back stiffen, see her hands tighten on the handgrips. ”It wasn't Sandra,” she says.

”Oh, right. It wasn't Sandra. Listen, I don't know exactly how she did it, but somehow she knew things Avery said to me. She even wore a copy of the d.a.m.ned dress he gave me. She scared the s.h.i.+t out of me, and I don't like being scared. So, if Sandra really is in some kind of trouble . . . Gee, how can I put this? I don't give a f.u.c.k.”

”You should.” Tamara's voice has become hard. ”Didn't you wonder how she did it? How she knew so much about you and Avery?”

”I know how she did it. Listen, since I've become vampire I've seen all kinds of weird s.h.i.+t. I've seen witches raise demons. I've seen shape-s.h.i.+fters s.h.i.+ft. I know empaths and psychics. I know how she did it. It was a spell. I have no intention of ever letting her get close enough to do it to me again.”

”It wasn't Sandra,” Tamara says, more forcefully this time.

”Then who was it?” I'm so angry, blood pounds at my temples. I'm shaking at the memory of the wrenching terror that had me vomiting at the side of the road. ”If it wasn't Sandra, who the f.u.c.k was it?”

”And you called me stupid,” Tamara snaps. ”It was Avery.”

”Avery?” I repeat, loading the word with as much scorn as I possibly can. ”You mean the Avery I staked during the fight that almost killed me? The Avery that dissolved into dust and blew away on a puff of air? That Avery?”

That's what I say to Tamara. Inside my head, though, a sudden, startling kernel of doubt turns my thoughts in a disturbing direction.

When Sandra looked at me, when she spoke Avery's words, she looked and sounded different. That had to be part of the spell, though, right? If possession was even remotely possible, Williams or Frey would have said something.

”Do you get it now?” Tamara says after a moment. ”Avery has taken over Sandra's body. He's doing it to get back at you. He hates you so much he'll do anything, even kill Sandra to do it.”

No. I shake off the doubt. It's not possible. ”Avery is dead.” It's unequivocal. ”I killed him. I thought Sandra was psychotic. She's delusional as well. So are you if you believe what she's telling you. We're almost at my partner's cabin. I'll drive back with him.

You want to take a message to Sandra? How about this? I don't want to see either of you ever again. If I do, I'll kill you both.”

CHAPTER 42.

AMARA STARTS TO SAY SOMETHING, BUT I CUT her off. ”I know what Sandra is doing. She's getting revenge because her cheating husband was getting ready to dump her a.s.s. It's the only thing that makes sense. How she found out about Avery and me in such detail, I don't know. Maybe she's a voyeur and she was there that night watching us. Maybe that's how she gets her rocks off. What I do know is that possession isn't possible. I staked Avery and he didn't disappear or fly away or turn into a rat.

He dissolved into dust. Into dust.”

”You don't understand,” Tamara says.

The vibe she's sending off is hostile, anxious and powerful as a bad smell.

It triggers defense mechanisms of my own. If she tries anything, the vampire Anna is ready. I lean forward, tighten my grip around her waist again until she whimpers, and whisper, ”I don't want to understand.”

Tamara grows quiet. We're approaching the turnoff that takes us off the highway, into the woods. For the next fifteen minutes we bounce along on a dirt road. Then, dead ahead is the last turnoff to David's cabin. It's not marked, so I drop my hands, touch Tamara's shoulder and point to the left. She maneuvers the Harley smoothly into the turn. I had braced myself because I wasn't sure she would. I figured she might take it at breakneck speed, bank sharply and dump me off the bike.

The dirt road drops off after about half a mile and becomes hard-packed gravel. Tamara downs.h.i.+fts and reduces speed. She can't see the cabin. It's set back about a mile and completely hidden in the pines. I remember how I felt when I saw it for the first time.

Tamara is in for a surprise.

I point to the left again, to a paved driveway. She takes it, and I wait for her reaction when we round the last bend and the cabin comes into view.

Predictably, her shoulders jump. If I could see her face, I'm sure the eyes would be big and the mouth agape.

The ”cabin” is a two-story affair, about twelve rooms and three thousand square feet. It's made of pine, stained a color close to that of a setting sun-or blood. David's father built it in the early seventies, right after the birth of his son, from logs harvested from their own land. Then David invested a lot of money during his football years to upgrade and renovate the place. There are two big stone chimneys, one at each end, and a wraparound porch in front. The windows are all open, and sheer curtains move with the breeze.

Tamara stops the bike in front and dismounts. ”Who owns this place?” she asks.

I swing off the back and pull the cap off my head. ”A friend.”

I start away from the bike, but Tamara puts a hand on my arm. ”This isn't over.” It's spoken quietly, but the harshness of the threat comes through.

I shake off her hand. She's probably right. The next time I face Sandra, though, it will be on my terms.

I head toward the front door but sounds from the back stop me: the rhythmic swish of an ax through the air and the crack as it hits wood. I switch directions.

<script>