Legacy

CHAPTER 8

THE ENTIRE DEBACLE AT CULEBRA’S LASTED ONLY an hour. It felt like much longer. The drive through tourist traffic making its slow way back to San Diego gives me time to sort through conflicting emotions.

The first being shock and anger at Max. For obvious reasons. But also a tinge of regret at the way I reacted. In spite of knowing that it never would have worked out between Max and me, seeing him tonight hurt.

Then there’s Sandra. I can’t believe she affected me in such a potent sexual way. A response maybe to seeing Max? To knowing he’d just had sex with someone else?

Confusion. Why in hell would one of her werewolf buddies want to pick a fight with me? As far as I know, I’ve never come in contact with any member of the were family, so I can’t have insulted or harmed one. Not intentionally anyway. My experience with the supernatural community has had its ups and downs, but the only time I’ve killed was in defense of myself or of the human community. I’m certain I’ve never killed a were.

By the time I get back to town, it’s after nine and my head spins from trying to sort it all out. I need a drink, so even though it’s too early to meet Rory, I head for Glory’s.

The bar is more crowded than before. All the tables and booths lining the back wall are occupied. I work my way through the crowd and ask the bartender if by chance Gloria or her partner is in the back. He says no. Gloria left a while ago, and Mr. O’Sullivan isn’t due for another couple of hours. I order a vodka martini, extra dry, hold the olives.

A thirtysomething wearing Armani and a sleazy smile moves off a stool and motions for me to sit. I do. He has the oily good looks of a lawyer, with designer horn-rim glasses and delicate hands. Defense, probably. The suit is too expensive and the hands too soft to belong to a prosecutor. He’s drinking something in a tall glass with a fancy swizzle. He’s definitely a defense attorney. The prosecutors I know wouldn’t be caught dead with a paper-umbrella drink.

Neither would I. It takes more than a raging libido to be tempted by a drink like that, or the type who would order one.

Caught dead. I smile at my own joke. When my drink comes, Umbrella Man flips a twenty onto the bar and steps closer, misinterpreting the smile as an invitation.

I figure one good growl should discourage him.

Careful, Anna. Don’t give yourself away.

Great. The familiar voice is an unwelcome intrusion into my head. I look past Umbrella Man. Williams is sitting at a table in the back. He’s smiling, too, but it’s only lip service. His eyes are veiled and serious.

Williams. What are you doing here?

It’s good to see you, too. What’s it been? Two months? You don’t write. You don’t call.

Very funny. I elbow my way toward him, ignoring the yelp of protest from Umbrella Man when I shove the drink back at him. If you’ll recall, you asked me not to contact you. From what I’ve been reading in the newspapers, you’re not completely out of trouble yet.

Williams moves so I can slide next to him on the bench seat. He knows I’ll want to have the same vantage point he does. Like good cops, or vampires, our backs to the wall, eyes on the crowd.

He’s in civilian clothes, slacks and a polo shirt open at the collar. He’s handsome in a fiftyish, lean, graying kind of way. The gray is an affectation. He’s a vampire, an old vampire, who is also the police chief of the city of San Diego.

At least technically.

Two months ago he got in trouble because of a rather unconventional police sting operation. Unconventional because it involved a civilian—me—and because although a bad man was caught, a deputy was killed in the process. It wasn’t Williams’ fault but as chief of police, every good thing he’d done in the ten years of his tenure faded when compared to the harsh reality that he’d lost one of his own. He’s on administrative leave now, defending his actions and his office to every civilian and police review board in existence. He has not yet been reinstated, and now here he is, sitting by himself in Glory’s nursing a beer.

Coincidence?

I think not.

“Why are you here?”

He tips his own glass toward me. “That’s what I like about you, Anna. There’s no bullshit in you. Culebra called me. Told me where you were headed.”

“I just left him. I have a cell phone. Why would he call you instead of me?”

He focuses on the beer in his hand with much more concentration than it merits. He’s also closed off his thoughts. Culebra seemed annoyed when I left but not worried. Why would he send Williams to find me unless . . .

“If this is about getting back on the Watcher team, you can forget it. I told you I don’t want to be a part of that anymore. I’m living as a human now. I intend to as long as I’m able.”

He leans his head close to mine. “Except for inconsequential things. Like drinking blood, right?”

I want to slap that sarcastic smirk off his face. Instead, I take his beer out of his hand and raise it to my own lips, swallowing the “fuck you” response with the beer. It galls me that Williams, who has a mortal wife and holds down a mortal job, is relentless in his attempt to persuade me to abandon my human roots to pursue what he mystifyingly calls “my destiny.” A destiny he refuses to define or explain. What I do know, however, is that it involves distancing myself from my family, something I won’t do.

We’ve been doing this dance as long as I’ve known him.

Someone has entered the bar, causing a ripple of excitement to run through the crowd. I look up in time to see Gloria make a grand entrance. She’s stunning in a short dress of gold lamé, her hair piled on top of her head, all traces of this afternoon’s crying jag erased from that radiant face.

She cruises through the crowd, bestowing the favor of her smile on one and all. When she disappears through the door to the office, I scoot to the end of the bench and prepare to follow her.

Williams stops me with a hand on my arm. “Wait. I have something to tell you.”

I shrug it off.

He doesn’t let me go. His grip tightens.

Furious, I whirl on him. “Take your hand off me.”

He releases my arm and holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry. You have to hear this. The were Sandra at the bar tonight? She’s looking for you. Culebra said she’ll contact you tomorrow.”

I remember her power and beauty and the control she exerted over her pack. I’m actually excited at the prospect of seeing her again until reason rears its ugly head. “Do you know why?”

“It’s complicated,” he says.

“Isn’t everything? Look, if you know, tell me. Why is she coming to see me?”

His eyes flash in the dim light. “She says she’s Avery’s wife. She wants you to know she’s coming to claim what’s hers.”