Lucia stood, gathering up trash and shoving it into a grease-stained brown paper bag. “You're a bad influence. I don't know why I let you talk me into eating this junk,” she groused, wiping her hands.
"Because it tastes good. Did you have a chance to—” She stopped when Luci held up a bag with the Gap logo across the side.
"Best I could do on short notice, but it's all there."
"It's perfect, Luce. Thanks. I'll take her shopping in the next couple of days, but you wouldn't believe what she's been wearing. She's twenty-three years old and dresses like someone's grandmother. Not my grandmother, of course, she'd never be caught dead in those things."
"Your grandmother has excellent taste. I saw her at a banquet last week."
"You see her more than I do."
"That's because I actually participate in my community's events."
"Uh huh.” Cyn didn't rise to the bait. Luci was always after her to attend some fund-raising get-together. Cyn gave her friend a sweet smile.
Luci shook her head in disgust. “Okay. I'm off. Don't leave me hanging, Cyn. Call me. Even if you don't have anything new to tell me, you need to call, okay?"
"Don't count on anything tonight. It'll probably be pretty late by the time I meet Eckhoff, and it may take a while to follow up on what I find out.” They walked together to the hangar door, and Cyn caught a troubled look on her friend's face. “Don't worry, Luce, I'll call you tomorrow night at the latest."
"That's not what I'm worrying about."
"Don't worry about that either. Raphael and I are history. This is strictly business."
"So you say.” Luci beeped her car open, then threw her purse inside and slid onto the driver's seat. Starting the car, she gave a little wave through the open window and drove away.
Cyn returned the wave with a smile. She didn't make friends easily and rarely held onto them once she did. But the friends she kept were important to her. Benita had been important. Her death had been painful in part because she'd betrayed Cyn, but also because she was gone. Cyn missed her in spite of everything. Shielding her eyes against the sun, which had broken out of the cloud cover in time for a brilliant sunset, she watched until Luci's car made a turn that took it out of sight around the buildings. Then she pulled out her cell phone.
She waited through the automated greeting and said, “Duncan, it's Cynthia Leighton. You've got my number.” It wouldn't be long now. The vampires would be waking up soon, and Cyn had some bodies to visit.
Chapter Seventeen
When it got dark inside the hangar, Cyn located the main light box and flipped the heavy switches until both long banks of industrial lights far overhead were fully lit. Back inside the airplane, she turned on several more cabin lights and opened the door to Mirabelle's sleeping compartment to admit as much light as possible.
After that there was nothing to do but wait some more, so she paced back and forth in front of the airplane, stopping every once in a while when she thought she heard a noise, then continuing to pace. She was so intent on listening for Mirabelle that the trill of her cell phone startled her badly. With one hand over her pounding heart, she checked the display and flipped it open.
"Hello, Duncan."
"Ms. Leighton."
"I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you,” she said.
"You received my messages?” He managed to put a world of disapproval and disappointment into those four words.
"Um, yeah. Sort of. My cell's been acting weird."
"I see."
She signed loudly enough to be sure he'd hear. “I'm sorry, okay. I thought ... Never mind what I thought. What can I do for you?” she said in her most chipper, businesslike voice.
"Where are you?"
"Santa Monica Airport, actually.” Which reminded her. “Listen, I need to talk to you—"
"How long have you been back?” He sounded puzzled.
"Since this morning. I've been sitting here waiting for sunset."
"Sunset.” He was silent for too long. “Is someone with you, Cynthia?"
"Yes."
"Mirabelle Hawthorn."
"Yes. Don't say it, Duncan. She's here and she's staying. I couldn't leave her there."
"Jabril will not be happy to have lost her, Cynthia."
"Tough. He can't keep her prisoner, can he? I mean you guys must have some sort of procedure for vampires moving around. They don't have to stay in one place forever."
"No, indeed."
"Christ on a crutch, Duncan. Enough of the inscrutable vampire shit. What do I do now?"
"Where is Mirabelle?"
"Still out of it. I chartered a plane and paid extra to have it sit in the hangar until after dark—” Cyn broke off, thinking she heard movement inside the plane. “Sorry, Duncan,” she continued absently, still staring at the silent airplane. “I thought I heard Mirabelle moving around, but maybe not. Shouldn't she be awake by now? I mean you're—"
"Much older than she is,” he interjected. “It is likely she does not wake until well after sunset, although not much longer now, I would expect. Have you made arrangements for her to feed?"
"Feed? Oh, shit. I didn't even think about that. What do I ... Damn!” Cyn started pacing again, her mind racing through possibilities. “I suppose if it's desperate, I could—"
"Do not,” Duncan interrupted forcefully, “give her your own blood. Do you understand me, Cynthia? Under no circumstances."
"Gross, Duncan. I was going to say I could call Lonnie.” Lonnie worked for Raphael, running a circuit of party houses in various parts of L.A. where people eagerly lined up for the chance to mingle with the vampires, donating blood straight from the vein in order to enjoy the mind-blowing sex that was offered in exchange. Lonnie could usually be found at the Malibu house with the beautiful people. “But why—” Cyn was about to ask why Duncan had been so emphatic about sharing her own blood, then sucked in a breath. “Raphael."
"Lord Raphael,” he agreed grimly. “He would not take kindly to another sharing—"
"What right does he—"
"The consequences would not be for you, but for Mirabelle, Cynthia. And it is not only feeding she will need, there is the matter of protection."
"Fine, fine. So what—” Cyn spun around as a dull thump echoed through the hangar. She stared at the small plane, watching it rock slightly, as if someone was moving around inside. “Duncan,” she said softly. “I think she's awake."
* * * *
Mirabelle woke slowly, her body sluggish, her mind dull, with none of the clarity she usually experienced on waking. She lay still, as always, listening, scenting the air. She opened her eyes. Light. There was too much light. Had someone opened the closet door while she slept? Was someone waiting...
Her heart, barely beating after her long day's sleep, skipped in panic as her senses kicked in. She wasn't in her closet. This wasn't her blanket and—she brushed away the unfamiliar covering and looked at herself—she'd slept in her clothes, something she never did. Her lungs expanded, taking in the strange scents of metal and oil, and something spicy, food, but nothing she could remember smelling before.
She sat up, pushing the blanket away with trembling hands, struggling to climb off the bed. It was some sort of platform, tucked into a small room, surrounded by walls on three sides, and her long skirt made it awkward to move around. Her legs dropped over the mattress edge and her feet touched the carpeted floor. A narrow door stood open in front of her, bright artificial light beaming in from the hallway. She rose slowly, one hand sliding up the nearby wall for support. She was terrified of stepping out into the light, but equally terrified of staying in the dark. The hunger decided for her, striking without warning, painfully intense and coupled with fear. What if there was no blood? Would she die? She'd heard stories of vampires living for months, years even, with no sustenance. Horror stories.
She took a step toward the light, crying out as a sudden stab of pain drove her to her knees, curling her into a tight ball of agony in the narrow space. Jabril Karim. Only he could do this, but why? What had she done? The pain doubled, then tripled and she screamed over and over, unable to do anything but give voice to the torment wracking her body. Every nerve was on fire, every muscle bunching and stretching at random until she thought her skin would burst and her body would fly apart. With no warning, the pain was gone, stopping as quickly as it had started. In the silence, she heard whispering. She scrambled toward the light, but the whispers followed, growing louder, pursuing her, threatening her with more torture, more agony if she didn't ... what? What did they want her to do? “Listen."
Mirabelle listened and shook her head in horror at what she heard. "Listen," the voices demanded again. "Look." She glimpsed an image. A dark-haired woman, her body lying limp, beautiful face rended with great bloody gashes as Mirabelle ... She gasped out loud and stared down at her own hands, at her diamond-hard nails, at her fingers curled into claws like an animal's. She tasted her own blood as her fangs split her gums, forcing their way between her lips. She drew a shuddering breath, then she stood up and lurched toward the open door.
Chapter Eighteen
The screams poured out of the small jet, filling the cavernous hangar and bouncing off the metal walls. Cyn raced for the stairs, stumbling through the narrow hatchway in time to see Mirabelle crouched on the floor outside the sleeping compartment, her eyes rolling white with terror. When she saw Cyn, she shrank back into the corner, teeth bared, fangs distended.
"Jesus, what—"
"Cynthia!” Duncan was shouting in her ear. “Don't—"
"Hurry, Duncan,” she closed the phone and took a step forward, letting the cell drop from her shaking hand. Mirabelle was crouched against the bulkhead, hissing defiantly, her hands curled into claws in front of her.