Legacy

CHAPTER 5

I’M SO KEYED UP WHEN I LEAVE GLORIA, I CAN hardly stand it. My skin feels too tight, my nerves tingle like exposed electrical wire. There’s only one sure thing that relieves pressure for a vampire. Well, two things, actually. Unfortunately, I don’t have a sex partner right now and Gloria has made me so angry I don’t trust myself with an unsuspecting human male. I have to do the next best thing. Feed.

Needing human blood to subsist has its problems. It’s not like you can walk into a hospital and ask for a transfusion. Even if you could, it would be of no use to the vampire. Blood that’s been pushed through tubes and refrigerated loses its essence.

Hunting on your own can lead to unfortunate consequences. While the existence of vampires is a secret well kept from most of society, there is a faction that not only knows we exist, but makes it a mission to exterminate us. Leaving hysterical victims or desiccated corpses is a sure way to attract unwanted attention.

What’s a vampire who needs fresh, warm, straight-from-the-donor blood to do?

Luckily, I know.

It’s a little after six, and I have plenty of time. Beso de la Muerte is a Mexican “ghost town” not on any map. It’s about an hour from San Diego, depending on traffic and the backup at the border. My need is great and my car is fast. I make it in forty-five minutes.

As I pull into town, if that’s what you can call a dirt road lined with decrepit wooden buildings, I’m amazed to see three dozen motorcycles lined up in front of the saloon. I’ve been coming here since the beginning of my vampire existence, and usually there’s a car once in a while. But I’ve never seen anything like this.

I have to park a good block from where I want to go, and walk. The bikes, all Harleys, gleam under a half-moon like jewels. Softails. Fat Boys. Big V-Twins: Flatheads and Knuckleheads. Custom and vintage bikes that set their owners back serious money.

The throbbing beat of a heavy-metal band pierces the desert quiet. I know the owner of the place, Culebra, and this is not his type of music. He prefers the shrill cheerful wailings of Mexican corrido music. If he’s agreed to play what I’m hearing now, it can only be because the patrons inside are spending a shitload of money.

I send out a mental probe—testing to see if I can determine who or what is inside. I get nothing back. No vibrations that indicate otherworldly beings. A raging libido jumps into overdrive along with my salivary glands. Humans who come here do so for two reasons: they are willing to allow vampires to feed from them and/or they have been granted Culebra’s protection for one reason or the other. In either case, if the bikes belong to humans, I’m sure to get what I need.

I’m sifting possibilities through my head as I approach the door. Humans agree to be donors not only for the money they are paid, but because it is an erotic, extremely pleasurable experience. If you are a vampire, combining feeding with sex is pleasure amplified a thousandfold. It’s taken me a while to get over the hang-up of indiscriminate sex/feeding with a stranger. I’ve come to accept it as one of nature’s ironies. Take procreation away from the vampire, but make the act so agonizingly pleasurable that the vampire craves sex as much as he craves blood.

Still, I’m not ready to do what most of my vamp pals have—establish a monogamous relationship. “Marry” a human to have both a partner and host. Not that I have that option. At the moment, I don’t have a human boyfriend.

Which is where Beso de la Muerte comes in.

I push through the swinging doors. The place smells of pot and patchouli. I’m glad I don’t breathe anymore. Two deep breaths, and I’d be high.

No one pays the least bit of attention to me as I make my way through the crowd. It’s largely female. Amazon women dressed head to toe in leather, sporting jackets with an insignia I’ve never seen before—a wolf superimposed against a full moon. They’re loud. Brittle laughter and shrill voices compete with the throb of the music.

I look around for my friend, Culebra. He’s a shape-shifter and the owner of this supernatural safe house. He’s not behind the bar. His mortal employee and a woman I don’t recognize are bartending. I send out a mental greeting.

Culebra? Are you here?

At first, there’s no response. Then I detect a ripple in the karmic fabric that feels a lot like alarm. I’m about to follow the path of the transmission when Culebra bursts from the back room.

What are you doing here, Anna?

Not exactly welcoming.

Nice to see you, too.

His distress at my presence blazes forth like an astral flare. His thoughts radiate a peculiar vibe I can’t read and he’s shut down the conduit between us that would allow me to understand what’s provoking his reaction. It’s a cerebral roadblock that ratchets my frustration up another notch.

What’s the problem? I had a stressful day. I want to feed. I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. Plenty of humans in here.

He steps close and the lines around his mouth tighten. There are no donors here for you. You should go. Now. Come back tomorrow.

No donors? The place is full of them.

No, Anna. You won’t want to feed from anyone here. Trust me.

I don’t. It doesn’t make sense. You’d better explain. I’m not picking up any mental vibes. No shape-shifters. No vamps, either, that I can detect. I stop and reconsider, “tasting” the air like a dog sniffs for a scent. Something is coming through that I hadn’t picked up on earlier. Okay. There is one vamp. In the back. She’s feeding. Why can’t I?

Culebra has a face that Sergio Leone would have cast as a villain in one of his spaghetti westerns. Craggy, world-weary, expressive.

Right now, the expression is embarrassment—a strange emotion coming from one who has been nothing but a good friend to me. What could possibly be causing this kind of reaction?

Unless he’s trying to protect me from something—or someone.

Who’s in the back?

No answer. But I know I’ve hit on something. He’s exerting such great effort to shield that information from me mentally that he doesn’t detect the physical movement behind him.

A vamp walks into the room, a tall, willowy redhead with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and green eyes shining with contentment. She acknowledges me, a fellow vamp, with a subtle nod of her head. She doesn’t shield her thoughts. Why should she? She detects no threat. She’s fed and she’s had sex. She’s content. She’s holding the arm of the donor whose expression mirrors her own. He’s a big man, walking with a slight limp. When he looks up and sees me, his eyes flicker, his face goes blank.

For an instant.

Then he smiles. A cold, impersonal smile.

“Hello, Anna.”

The vamp looks from one of us to the other, a spark of interest quirks one perfectly shaped eyebrow. You two know each other?

Oh, yes. It takes a minute for me to recover from the shock. Another to acknowledge her question with a nod. Oh, yes, we know each other.

“Hello, Max.”