The Watcher

CHAPTER 27

WELL. I DON'T KNOW WHAT KIND OF ANSWER I expected, but certainly not that one. Now, of course, I have a hundred other questions. The Watchers aren't the only game in town, huh? Casper may be gone but I'll certainly grill Williams about it when I get out of here.

I turn back to look at the car. I guess I'll have to burrow back to the car, gather the stuff I bought this morning to bring to Beso de la Muerte, and head for town.

I look down.

Avatoar isn't the only thing gone.

The hole is, too.

Shit.

I throw up my hands. "You could have left the hole."

I don't expect an answer and I'm not wasting time trying to make Avatoar come back. I believed him when he said I wouldn't be hearing from him again. I guess my probation period as a vampire is officially over. I'm sure when I have time to think about that, I'll miss Casper. But right now, I'm too busy being irritated with him. All the provisions I brought for this little foray are still locked in the trunk of a car I can no longer reach.

The sun is already low in the sky. Nothing to do now but make my way into Beso de la Muerte and see if Culebra left any clue about what's happened to him.

I start out at a jog, a pace designed to prevent my unprotected head from bouncing off any other obstacles that Burke might have thrown up. But this time, I get all the way into town with nothing to slow me down but the mounting desire to be running the other way. My feet tread relentlessly forward, but my head is yelling at me to turn around and get the hell out of here. The fact that darkness is falling adds to the escalating feeling of dread.

Once in sight, the street and its decrepit collection of rotting buildings looks even more run down than I last remembered. It's as if with Culebra and his "guests" gone, decomposition has accelerated. The boards on the dusty sidewalk creak an ominous warning as I approach the saloon. I have to force myself to push open the swinging doors and walk inside. The threat of something dark and evil makes every motion of my hand, every footstep, heavy with foreboding. It's right in front of me, floating just out of reach, a shadow promising the torment of a nightmare, the embodiment of one's worst fear. It's forcing itself into my head and under my skin. It's designed to raise the hackles on the back of my neck and bile in my throat.

It's beginning to piss me off.

I do a slow turn around the room. No light. No sound. But something is here. I exhale to steady my voice, calm my heart and say, "Okay, whatever you are. Save the theatrics for the paying customers. Either show yourself or leave me the hell alone."

There's a rustle from behind the bar.

Suddenly, my bravado wilts like a spring flower in the hot desert sun. My heart hammers with adrenaline-laced fear. What have I summoned?

The rustling grows louder, something gathering itself to what? Attack? I hear a low, ominous growl. Shape-shifting perhaps into a monster fashioned from my very own nightmares?

Should I run? Even as the thought passes through my head, I know I can't. I'm rooted to the spot. I force myself to move, to approach the bar. I'll meet whatever is there head-on. I pick up a chair, hold it over my head. My reflexes seem to have reverted back to human speed. Fear has driven even the vampire away.

"Come out, you son of a bitch. I'm right here."

The rustle gets louder, concentrated almost. But the thing doesn't show itself.

A thought dawns. Maybe it's as frightened of me as I am of it.

Or maybe it wants me to think that. To let my guard down and approach even closer, exposing myself to the full brunt of its attack.

My head is starting to hurt again. I can't wait much longer if I'm going to find Culebra before the witching hour. I've come this far pretty much intact. I may as well go for broke.

My grip on the chair tightens. I open my mouth to let out a banshee yell. If nothing else, I'll scare the damned thing to death.

A head pokes over the top of the bar, a hand waves frantically. "Damn it, Anna. Give me a minute, will you. I'm trying to get my pants on."

The chair clatters to the floor. "Frey?"

He disappears again and I catch the brief, sibilant sound of the metal teeth on a zipper meshing together. Then he stands up and holds up both hands. "It's me, okay? Relax."

Relax? "What the hell are you doing here?"

Daniel Frey comes around the bar, shirtless, barefoot. And grins.

"Williams sent me. I've been waiting for you."