Retribution

CHAPTER 60

I’VE SEEN IT BEFORE IN MEDIA ACCOUNTS BUT NEVER experienced the real thing. The funeral of a decorated police officer.

Ortiz’ funeral.

I arrive at the cemetery after the mile-long procession of police vehicles and limousines have already disgorged the mourners. Ortiz ’

empty coffin is on the grave site, draped in an American flag. A color guard is off to one side.

I stand in the back of the crowd, scanning for the presence of other vampires, on alert for Williams. I expect he’ll be sitting with Brooke.

He has great resources within the supernatural community. Resources that would have come to his aid yesterday and helped him heal.

Knowing how he felt about Ortiz, I can’t imagine he would not have moved heaven and earth to see his friend laid to rest. And yet I detect no other vampires—not even Williams. Is he cloaking himself from me?

I work my way through the crowd, but don’t push myself to the very front. After what happened yesterday, keeping him in sight while not exposing myself seems prudent. I don’t expect he’d try to retaliate here, but he may have someone else do it for him. It may be the reason he’s cloaking his thoughts.

When I reach a place where I can see the seated mourners, I get a shock. Brooke and her sister are together under a covered awning.

Alone. Williams is not with them.

The two sisters lean in toward each other, hands entwined. They are dressed in black, slacks, sweaters. Brooke is listening to the police chaplain as he reads from an open Bible. She has the weary, glazed look of one in shock.

I recognize the expression. It’s one of the reasons I hate funerals. No matter how long it’s been, I’m transported right back to the one funeral I’ll never be able to forget. The sharp anguish of losing a brother has not diminished with time. The pain still gnaws at my gut.

There’s an older woman seated to the right of Brooke. She has an arm over the back of Brooke’s chair, sits erect, stares straight ahead.

If she’s listening to the police chaplain, she gives no indication of it. She appears more angry than sad. Restless. Every few minutes, her eyes scan the crowd, pausing on a face here and there, moving on. Who is she looking for?

She finds me. There’s no ambiguity in her reaction when she sees me. It ’s nothing overt. She doesn’t jump up or point or yell in my direction.

She simply grows very still and stares.

As soon as our eyes meet, I know why. I recognize her. From a night nine months ago when I was invited to a party at Avery ’s. We were never formally introduced, but I saw her in Avery’s living room. She was there with her husband.

She is Warren Williams’ mortal wife.

For the remaining hour of the service, she doesn’t take her eyes off me. As it concludes, the color guard gives its twenty-one-gun salute and the mourners file past the coffin to pay last respects.

Brooke and her sister are among the last to leave the grave site.

Mrs. Williams stands off to the side. I do, too. The sisters glance over at us but don ’t approach. When they’ve made their way to a waiting car, she turns to me.

“I know what you did.”

Mrs. Williams is an attractive fortysomething, sophisticated, perfectly coiffed, attired in the proper ensemble for the funeral of a friend.

Her tailored suit is charcoal gray, probably Versace, her shoes chic but sensibly low -heeled to handle the grass, her shoulder bag dark-grained leather. She wears a simple band of diamonds on her left ring finger, diamond studs in her ears.

What doesn’t fit the polished exterior is her expression.

Anger burns through her eyes. It’s a dark shadow on her face, a clenched jaw. She’s human, but she’s projecting enough animal hatred to make me take a defensive step back.

She closes the distance. “Warren is at home. He almost didn’t make it. I had to pull that bar out of his chest. He might have died in that warehouse, and you left him there. You chose the life of a witch over one of your own.”

There’s no point in reminding her that her husband is a vampire and wouldn ’t have died. Or in asking her if she knew why he’d gone to the warehouse in the first place.

She’s beyond the point of reason. She looks toward the car, turning her face away from me. “No parent should ever suffer the loss of a child,” she says. Her voice is sad, haunted.

I don’t understand. Is she talking about Brooke? Did Brooke lose a child? Certainly, it couldn ’t have been Ortiz’. Vampires can’t reproduce.

When she faces me, I read the truth in her eyes. She’s talking about Williams and Ortiz. Williams sired Ortiz. I should have realized it sooner, recognized the bond between them. Ortiz was a son to Williams, the only kind he could ever have.

The moment of melancholy is gone in the instant it takes Mrs. Williams to wipe a tear from her cheek. Rage once again hardens her features.

“I told Brooke that he was so broken up he had to get away, be by himself. But Warren is strong. He’ll get better. And when he does, he’ll come after you. It isn’t over, Anna.”

She starts to walk away, stops, turns. “It didn’t have to be this way. Warren had such high hopes for you. You were supposed to be the one to make the peace. Instead, you wage war.”

She shakes her head, looking older somehow, sadder, as if the weight of her words is a burden she can’t put down. “Warren said you have only a few months left to accept what must be. Instead, you continue this useless fight. And you know who will suffer?”

She lets her gaze travel to the car, to the girls staring out at us. “They will be the ones who pay the price. The innocents. Well, Anna, you want a war? You’ve got one. And it’s a war no one will win. I hope you’re satisfied.”