Legacy (Page 27)

MY CAR ARRIVES BEFORE TOM'S AND I THROW him a two-finger salute as I pull away. He looks chagrined that I'm getting the jump on him. Too bad. He can always call Williams, make up a story about losing me. I have no doubt Williams knows where I'm headed tonight. He and Culebra and Frey seem to make my business their own.

It's eight forty-five, already too late to make it to Avery's by nine. Impatience nips at me, but there's one more thing to do. I circle the block, come back and park a block away from the restaurant. When Tom pulls out in his big, black Escalade, I take note.

I know what kind of car to keep a watch for now.

He turns in the same direction I did moments before. The direction that takes him away from me.

Finally, I'm free.

Angst over what happened with my family, surprise at identifying Williams' tail, irritation at allowing myself to be drawn into Gloria's drama-everything is swept from my thoughts. Only anxiety, excitement and anticipation remain, making me feel like a teenager on a first date.

No, not exactly a first date.

Like the first time a girl knows she's going to sleep with someone and she's breathless with wanting.

Wanting it to be perfect.

Wanting not to be found lacking.

Jesus.

Sandra is female.

Doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Concentrate on something else. Concentrate on driving.

There's not much traffic on the highway to take my mind off Sandra. I take 5 North from downtown and head toward La Jolla, doing my best to ignore the tight coil of uneasiness unraveling along with my self-confidence.

Anxiety over Sandra is giving way to the realization that I'm soon going to be setting foot in a house that holds dreadful memories. David almost died there, at the hands of a man who spun an intricate web of desire and intrigue. For a time, I was Avery's willing pupil, believing that he loved me and was honestly trying to help me understand my new nature. He was a doctor of medicine, devoted to the care of mortals. I thought he understood how important it was that I stay close to my human family.

Truth was, he did everything to sever those ties. He burnt down my home and kidnapped my partner, torturing him under the same roof where he made love to me. He played an elaborate charade, offering his help to find David when in reality he threw up one roadblock after another. He manipulated and controlled me.

And I let him.

More than let him. I was his eager protegee. I believed everything he told me. Questioned nothing. Blinded by a powerful sexual attraction and fueled by a new blood drive, I fed from him body and soul. It was powerful. It was an addiction.

It was wonderful beyond words.

Until I learned the truth.

Avery's house is on Mount Soledad. It sits behind a gated wall, perched high over the Pacific. The gate yawns open at my approach, but I see no one in the gatehouse. I steer the Jag up the long, palm-tree-lined driveway fighting a sudden impulse to turn the car around and race away.

As strong as that urge is, though, a burning desire to see Sandra is stronger. It propels me forward, sends fingers flying upward to smooth my hair, to touch my lips, to trace the curve of my breasts through the silk of my dress.

I can't control it.

My hands start to shake. I felt this way with Avery. Out of control. Bewitched.

I bang a fist on the steering wheel, hard enough to send a shiver of pain racing up my arm.

I won't let it happen again.

The house looms ahead. Light spills out of every window, warm, inviting shafts of light that signal welcome like a beacon. I pull up at the front door. There are no other cars or motorcycles in sight but there is a garage in back. Sandra must be parked there.

I climb out of the car, closing the door gently. She knows I'm here. Just as I know she's inside. I feel it like the breeze on my face. There's a tickle of scent on the air. Jasmine. Rose. Something more exotic. Frangipani. I breathe it in. Closing my eyes, tilting my face. Stalling.

When I open my eyes again, I see it. Rising over the roof of Avery's house. Sending clouds scurrying from its brilliance like rats from a golden scythe.

The full moon.