The Becoming

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A vamp doctor has David.

Nothing Lawson could have said rocks me like that one statement.

The implication is clear. My rational mind tells me that with all the vampires in San Diego, Avery may not be the only doctor.

But as far as I know, he's the only one who can connect David with me.

Why would Avery kidnap David? And if he did, is he also responsible for the fire?

None of this makes sense.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It's almost two in the afternoon. Avery said he'd be at the hospital until six. At least I'll have some time to search the house before he returns.

Avery.

My heart lies heavy in my chest. I thought we had a bond. More than the sex and blood thing. He appeared to be helping me—first in finding Donaldson and then, David. Otherwise, what was the point of Beso de la Muerte ?

Unless he thought I'd be killed there, too.

Could I really have been so wrong about him?

The driveway is empty when I pull up. This time, I drive around back, to the garage area. It's a stone structure, like the house, with three heavy iron doors to mark parking pads. I press a remote in the Explorer and one of the doors glides up. I pull the car inside and close it behind me.

There's one other vehicle inside—a restored Thunderbird from the 60's. The top is down and the tuck and roll upholstery shines in the overhead light. I run a finger over the leather, wondering if someone who could so lovingly restore a beautiful automobile like this be monster enough to put me in this much pain.

I check the garage out quickly. There are no trap doors leading underground, no hidden loft areas above. If David is somewhere on the premises, it's got to be in the house.

There's a covered portico leading from the garage to the back door. In case the housekeeper is still inside, I ring the bell. I think I remember Avery saying she only comes in the mornings and when no one answers, I let myself in.

It's so quiet. I find myself tiptoeing from one room to the other. On the ground floor, there's the kitchen, dining room, library, living room. I can't find any other outside doors except the ones that lead to the balcony and deck areas and the front door off the foyer.

There's no basement door, either, in spite of his joke this morning about keeping servants down below to drain their blood.

With a sick feeling, I find myself questioning if it was a joke. I almost retch at the thought that I might have been drinking David's blood. But a stronger, more virulent feeling overtakes the nausea. If Avery fed me David's blood, I'll kill him.

I've only been in two rooms upstairs, Avery's bedroom and the guestroom where Avery put my things. There are four other bedrooms up here, all expensively furnished in antiques, all tastefully appointed with drapes and carpets in muted earth tones. None of them look as if they've been used recently. In fact, all the closets are bare, the drawers empty. It's like walking through a designer showcase. Even the pictures on the dressers are fake—pretty frames with dime store photographs.

It dawns on me that there's nothing personal in Avery's bedroom either. I guess after hundreds of years, there's nothing personal left.

Is that what I have to look forward to?

I shake off the maudlin flood threatening to drown me and keep looking. At each end of the long hall that separates the bedrooms, there's a door. The one on the left leads to a back stairway. I follow it down to the kitchen. Then return to try the other one. It leads up. Evidently there's an attic.

The door at the top of these stairs is locked. I'm filled with apprehension. I press my ear to the door, but there's no sound. I knock and call out, “David?"

Nothing.

I put my shoulder against the door and shove. There's a splintering of wood and the door gives way. As soon as I step inside, I'm greeted with an unfamiliar odor—one of must and decay. Even not having to draw breath keeps me from gagging. It's a reflex. The atmosphere in the room is suffocating.

Cautiously, I look around, mouth open, trying to gauge the source of the smell. It seems to come from a wall of chests, stacked near the top of the gables. As I approach, the smell gets stronger. Each chest looks different, but the size is pretty much the same.

A little bigger than an old fashioned steamer trunk. There are eight or nine, some made of wood with metal hinges rusted with age, some made of more modern materials with brass or plastic hinges.

The most modern looking of all is also the one nearest my grasp. It's a plain, wooden affair with shiny hinges. There's a picture painted on the top, a portrait of a girl with golden hair standing in a window. She looks about twenty and her smile is full of joy and youth. She has on an old fashioned jumper and her hair falls in luxuriant curls to her shoulders. The portrait is so lifelike, it could be a photograph instead of a painting.

Something compels me to open this trunk, to see what lies beneath such a charming picture. My hand shakes as I release the catch.

Before I see it, I know what it is . It's more than the odor, it's the feel of death. There are photographs inside, daguerreotypes brown with age, a lock of hair, a scrap of clothing.

And human remains.

A desiccated corpse that must have been lying here for years. Suddenly, I know why Avery said what he did the other night.

In the union between vampire and mortal, it's the vampire that suffers.

He was speaking from personal experience. I've found Avery's heart. Here in this attic, three hundred years of mortal lovers lost while the vampire continues unchanged and untouched by anything save this realization.

But there's another realization that hits me, too.

Like a knife in the chest.

David is not here.

Lawson either misunderstood or lied about his kidnapper being a vamp doctor.

And I've invaded Avery's privacy in a way I know he'll never forgive.

I don't know what to do. I retreat from the attic mausoleum, softly closing the ruined door behind me. Avery will know at a glance that someone has been here. The idea that he lives with the mortal remains of those he's loved should repulse me. Instead, I'm filled with sadness and foreboding. Sadness because he clings to all that's left of love lost, and foreboding because I'm afraid it reflects something of my own future. I know now it's not a casket filled with earth from the mother country a vampire carries with him from one place to the other.

Seeking refuge in the guestroom, I stretch out on the bed to think. Avery is not due home for hours. I don't think I can wait that long. After a few moments, I find the paper he's given me with his hospital number and dial.

His receptionist answers, and when I tell her my name, I hear the smile in her voice.

"He's on his way home, Anna. He said he had a guest waiting for him. I must tell you, you've certainly put a spring in his step. He's not the same man he was a week ago."

I put the receiver down softly. And he won't be the same man tomorrow, either.