Retribution

CHAPTER 42

I PEER AT THE PERFECT FACE, THE INNOCENCE THAT shines from her eyes. This young girl came up with a plan to bleed vampires to death for the sake of a damned a cosmetic? It doesn’t seem possible. Is she telling the truth?

She releases a breath. “Simone is my sister, but her real name is Belinda Burke. I think you knew that though, didn’t you?”

Not all of it.

I’m immediately suspicious. “Your name is Sophie Deveraux. Not Burke. A friend told me you were a relative of the Jonathan Deveraux who used to live here. How could you be Belinda Burke’s sister?”

A small, sad smile tips the corners of her mouth. “It’s a long story. I’ll—”

There’s a buzz from somewhere in the back of the house. Sophie pauses. “I think your friends are here.”

A Latino housekeeper appears in the doorway. She looks surprised to see that her mistress is not alone. She says something to Sophie in Spanish and Sophie answers. I understand enough to know her housekeeper just announced Turnbull’s arrival. Sophie tells her to open the gate.

Then she turns to me. “It’s time to go.”

She’s not resisting the idea that I want her to come with me. It’s surprising, if she’s the mastermind behind the whole scheme. Still, it’s better than having to drag her kicking and screaming. I keep my eyes on her as she leads the way through a maze of rooms to the front door. If she’s cloaking great power, she’s doing a good job of it.

The limo is right outside the front door. The housekeeper accompanies us, speaking to Sophie in rapid-fire Spanish. I pick up from her expression and the timbre of her voice that she’s afraid for her mistress, mistrustful of the woman with “ojos salvajes” who appeared from nowhere and is now taking her away.

Sophie throws me a calculated glance, reads that I understood most of what the woman was saying and replies with a few reassuring words to her before walking down the steps to the car.

The remark about the “wild-eyed” woman, though, goes unchallenged.

Turnbull is standing outside the car, passenger door open. When Sophie slips in ahead of me, he gives me a raised -eyebrow look and asks, That’s Sophie Deveraux?

Any reason to doubt it?

She’s a lot younger than I imagined. A spell?

Or another satisfied customer.

IT’S A QUIET RIDE BACK TO CENTENNIAL AIRPORT. I have many questions to ask Sophie, but I don’t want to ask them in front of Turnbull. I don’t trust him.

Turnbull keeps to himself, too. He doesn’t introduce himself to Sophie. Afraid, maybe, that if he does and they meet at some charity function in the future, she’ll remember. I’m sure he’s relieved that he’s not been asked to dispose of a body. The sooner he gets Sophie alive and on that plane, the better.

The silence gives me a chance to study Sophie. There’s something—an unidentifiable quality—about her that’s unusual. Every once in a while, she gets an expression on her face that makes me think she’s listening to—what? Her focus turns inward. If she were vampire, I’d say she was reading Turnbull or me. She’s not vampire. I’m certain of it. I’d have recognized it when I saw her for the first time. She was startled and had no chance to put up psychic defenses.

It’s creepy. Could Sophie Deveraux be psychotic? Does she hear those kind of voices?

She knew Tremaine was Burke. She knew about the deaths from the cream. She says she came up with the idea. With her sister.

My hands curl into fists. They itch to get her alone on that plane, to find out what else she knows.

The jet is primed and ready when we pull onto the airstrip. I say good-bye to Turnbull. It doesn’t take long. He’s as glad to be rid of me as he is Sophie. I thank him for helping me find Sophie. I mean it, too. Saved me from hassling with a GPS system on a rental car.

He’s gone before we take off.

He doesn’t ask me back for a visit.

Once aboard, Sophie slips into a seat and belts herself in. She’s neither curious nor impressed by the plane.

Probably has one just like it.

Lawson comes back to greet us. He gives us a weather update and tells us we’ll be on our way in ten minutes.

I wait until we’re airborne and he’s given us the okay to move about the cabin. I tell him we won’t be needing anything and don’t want to be disturbed. Then I unbuckle my seat belt and swivel my seat to face the girl.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Who are you?”

Sophie squares herself in the seat. Resolute blue eyes look into mine. “My name was Sophie Burke. Belinda is my sister.”

“You call yourself Sophie Deveraux. Jonathan Deveraux was vampire. You assumed a new identity, set yourself up as heir to his estate.

Why?”

If she really is the bitch Burke’s sister, I expect her answer will have to do with distancing herself from the black-magic witch.

Instead, Sophie smiles. “Black-magic witch. She is that, yes. But that’s not the reason I became Sophie Deveraux.”

I jerk upright in the seat. There’s no mistaking it this time. She does hear voices. She heard mine.

What are you?

What do you think I am?

The voice is masculine, touched with a hint of an accent, like Turnbull ’s, faintly southern. It’s coming from inside Sophie but it’s not Sophie speaking. Gooseflesh raises icy bumps on my arms.

The memory of another male voice addressing me from a female form plunges me into a nightmare.

Avery. That time it was Avery and the female was Sandra.

Dread roots me to the spot. I’m trapped at twenty thousand feet with something I can’t identify and rising panic. Has Avery done it again? Did he manage to escape from Sandra? Is he here on his own plane to exact revenge?

Who’s Avery? I thought you were the Big Bad.

The voice this time is diffused with curiosity and a hint of humor.

It’s laughing at me.

Not a good idea. Anger replaces panic, cracking the shell of fear paralyzing me and allowing the vampire to break free. The growl and hiss erupt from the dark place determined to protect itself.

I’ll ask you one more time. What are you?

It’s Sophie who answers after a moment’s hesitation. “Sorry, Ms. Strong,” she says with quiet resignation. “I should have told you.” She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, down the length of her body. “I’m not exactly alone in here. You’ve been talking with my alter ego, Jonathan Deveraux.”