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“To Catholics, Santa Barbara. But to those of us who practice santeria, it is Chango, one of the strongest of the deities.” Ricardo followed Peter then sat in one of the chairs in the back room.
Peter turned to look at him, waving his hand at the woven grass mat on the floor and the chairs circling the area. “What exactly do you do back here?”
“Worship. The Supreme Court says it’s allowed, you know.” As he spoke, Ricardo crossed his arms in a casual stance, but there was some anger in his words.
Peter sat in one of the chairs opposite Ricardo. “Do you do your ‘healing’ here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but knowing he failed miserably.
Surprisingly, the other man took Peter’s contempt in stride. “I’m not asking that you believe, Detective. But I know I’ve helped others with my abilities.”
Peter flipped through his notes before asking, “You say you helped one of the teenagers that night.”
Ricardo nodded. “One of them was still alive when I got there, but bleeding badly.”
“Was it a mystical help or—”
“Plain old medical help. I applied pressure to his wound and tried to do what I could. I was a medic in the army before opening my store.” Peter suspected there was more to that story than he was letting on, not that it mattered to this case.
“And how about Ms. Turner? How did you help her that night?”
“Detective. I’ve already told you. I was the only one on the street that night with the children.”
“Right. So tell me how it is that Ms. Turner was the one who purchased the groceries at the store? Groceries in your possession immediately after the shooting.”
There was no trace of emotion on the santero’s face. Not even a flinch or a narrowing of the eyes. “I went to the shelter. Ms. Turner was already inside when I took the groceries from her.”
“In your pajamas? And you walked right into the line of fire?”
“I’m a healer, Detective. What did you expect?”
He’d expected the santero to do exactly what he was doing, Peter thought. Cover up for Samantha Turner. Peter had no doubt she’d been there that night. Maybe even had a hand in saving the lives of the children who’d survived. But if she had done so, she had to have been injured. The blouse and the blood in the stairwell gave mute testimony to that fact.
“Did you heal Ms. Turner after she was shot that night?”
Shaking his head, Ricardo rose from his chair and motioned for Peter to leave. “I think we’ve exhausted this line of questioning, Detective.”
Peter followed Ricardo back to the counter. “Did you heal her? Off the record.”
Ricardo narrowed his eyes as he considered him. “Off the record?”
Peter nodded.
“What Samantha has, I can’t heal.”
Something akin to dread filled Peter’s gut. “She’s sick? Is it—”
“It’s not a sickness like you can imagine, Detective. It’s in here,” Ricardo said and motioned to a spot above his heart.
“I know she’s had it rough. I saw the lines on her back.”
Ricardo seemed almost physically jolted by that revelation. “She doesn’t show them to many people. She must trust you.”
He didn’t want to contradict the other man by telling him that he’d given Samantha no choice. Not that they were what he’d expected. But having seen them, he’d recognized that she’d entrusted him with something very personal and very painful.
Peter said nothing else, just closed his notepad and headed for the door.
“Detective.”
Peter stopped and turned.
“Don’t make her sorry that she trusted you.”
Chapter 6
The morning sun was still weak and she was still in overdrive from Diego’s blood. Not to mention that a flat of salmon-colored impatiens called to her to be planted.
Samantha let Sofia know where she would be, grabbed a large floppy-brimmed hat and walked into the yard. The buildings nestled close together kept the yard in partial shade for most of the morning. It wasn’t until noon that the sun was high enough to bathe the yard with light.
Perfect timing actually. At her age she could tolerate weak morning sunlight, but not anything stronger. At least, not for long. She hoped wherever Meghan was, she had taken shelter. As young as she was, she could die quickly from overexposure.
She picked up the flat of impatiens and began on the left side of the yard. The sun would bathe that area first as it travelled to the west. The border along this side already held a collection of vegetable plants. The small garden cut food costs and there was nothing like the taste of a ripe tomato picked off the vine.
Small shovel in her gloved hand, floppy hat securely on her head, she worked quickly, transplanting the impatiens from their small plastic containers to the rich earth. As she worked she occasionally glanced up at the sky, keeping a careful watch for the sun.
She had bordered the vegetables when she heard the slide of the French doors. Sofia stood in the courtyard, Detective Daly beside her.
Merde.
“You have a guest.” Sofia didn’t wait for Samantha’s reply. She left the detective to find his own way.
Samantha wasn’t about to encourage him to stay. As he walked toward her, she picked up the flat and walked to the back of the yard to continue with her gardening. She dug a few holes and was reaching for a container when he stood beside her.
“I’m sorry to bother you again.”
She refused to look up. Instead, she slipped a plant in each hole and tamped down the soil around the roots. “I’ve already told you I know nothing about what happened that night.”
He crouched down to her level. “I got a call a short while ago. We found the car and CSU is already working it.”
She finally faced him. A big mistake. Unlike the other day when he’d been looking a little haggard from lack of sleep, he had a fresh-faced glow on his tanned face. His hair—that shaggy streaked blond hair—hung along the edges of his face, itching to be brushed aside. She fought her awareness by saying, “And that’s supposed to mean?”
“We may get some prints or other evidence. But that’s still not as good as an eyewitness.”
She rose and shifted to work on another section of the border.
He followed, but didn’t crouch down beside her again. Instead, he pitched his plea while standing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his serviceable dark gray suit. He jangled his change as he spoke. “Your friend Ricardo wasn’t at the scene. That’s obvious from talking to him.”
She shrugged and continued digging. “Ricardo says he saw the car and the shooter.”
“I never said there was only one shooter.”
Peter watched as his words made her pause. She fumbled with the shovel before resuming her methodical planting. “Ricardo mentioned it to me.”
She was lying. He didn’t need to see her face to know it. He could tell from the tension in her body. The muscles in her shoulders had tightened beneath the pale blue long-sleeved T-shirt she wore with faded jeans that hugged every curve.
“A defense attorney will shred Ricardo’s testimony. That may create enough reasonable doubt for those killers to walk.”
She finally turned her gaze on him. Her earlier flush had faded. Now she looked rather pale. “I didn’t see what happened.”
“They’ll kill again, you know. They’re like animals. Once they get a taste of fresh blood, the urge doesn’t go away.”
His comment made her blanch even more and sway. He reached out to steady her, but she wrenched away. “Don’t touch me.”
Peter gritted his teeth and took a breath. “I’m sorry. Again.”
She glanced down at her hands before looking up at him and then beyond. He followed her gaze, but could see nothing since the sun was coming up over the roof of the building next door. Samantha tucked the last small pack of flowers beneath one of the low-lying bushes then hurried to the house.
Peter followed her, intent on pleading his case, hoping she would admit the truth.
Once inside, she tossed her hat and gloves on a small table then poured herself a cup of coffee. She didn’t offer him one.
Which disappointed him. First, because the lady made a mean cup of coffee. Second, because he knew she was blowing him off. He wasn’t about to let her get away with that. “May I have some?”
A small smile quirked her mouth. “Presumptuous aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
That dragged a chuckle from her. “I imagine you have, Detective.”
“Peter. You can call me Peter. Remember?” he said as he sat at the kitchen table.
Samantha eyed him intently, trying to get a read on the detective. Was the investigation making him linger, or was it something else? Despite her age, or maybe because of it, her womanly intuition was rusty. She intentionally hadn’t dealt with the man-woman game since escaping the vampire who sired her. That had been nearly one hundred and forty years ago.
“Detective,” she said now. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“There’s no need, ma’am. Unless you have more of those square donut things.”
He dragged a smile to her lips again with his honesty and with his boyish grin at the mention of the beignets. Turning from him, she poured him a cup of coffee and microwaved a small pot of milk to warm it. When she placed both before him on the table, she finally answered him, “No beignets today, Detective.”
“Peter.”
“Just some buttermilk biscuits.”
“Homemade?” he asked with hopefulness.
She crossed her arms and smiled. “Are there any other kind?”
“Would you join me if I had one, or maybe two?”
She’d told herself not to encourage him to stay and yet here she was doing just that. And even considering his offer to join him, not that she had need of any food. While she might enjoy the tastes of what she prepared, only blood provided sustenance. Until the sun had entered the courtyard, Diego’s blood had energized her, but now that strength was beginning to fade. Once Sofia left for class and the good detective departed, she’d have to grab a snack from the small refrigerator in her room.
“I’m not really hungry, but I’ll keep you company. It’s the least I can do to thank you for the lovely flowers.”
“No, it was the least I could do to apologize for yesterday. For touching you. I shouldn’t—”
Samantha gave an angry slash with her hand to silence him and looked away. “That’s okay. I’d rather not discuss that.”
She almost jerked back when he cupped her chin and urged her to look at him. “I’m sorry. And you’re cold. Are you okay? You’re pale.”
She hated the concerned look on his face. “I think it’s time you left, Detective.”
He didn’t correct his name again, as if aware that it would do little good. Biscuits and coffee forgotten, he rose, and she walked him to the front door.
“Not all men hurt, you know.”
Samantha gripped the edge of the door, battling for control as anger rose in her. “And you know this because you’re an expert in what men do?”
All boyishness fled from his face. He motioned to everything around them. “I see it every day, Samantha. I know what some men do. But I know there are other men who want to make things right.”
Only nothing could ever be right with me, Samantha thought. No amount of goodness could change what she was or the undead life she lived because of the cruelty of men.
“Goodbye, Detective,” she said and closed the door on him. Hopefully forever.
Chapter 7
The steel chains binding Meghan to the hooks in the cement wall were cold against her skin. The wall was rough against her body. The sicko liked to keep her naked, her feet barely touching the ground.
Meghan pulled at the chains feebly, weak from the need to feed and the daylight that snuck in through the window at the end of the day, searing her skin. She couldn’t recall how many times that sunlight had popped in to inflict its punishment. Had it been two or three days? she wondered.
It was becoming hard to focus due to her waning strength and the fear that touched her during the long bouts of being alone and confined. Fear that would roar to life once he’d come back to play his demented games.
She should have known better than to go with the old man. She’d thought he’d be an easy conquest. The weak usually were.
Only he’d turned the tables on her the moment they’d left the club.
Meghan hadn’t known what hit her. All she knew was that a sudden explosion of pain had brought her to her knees before she lost consciousness.
During her captivity, she’d learned that the perverted ol’ bastard had used a Taser on her. She still bore burn marks from the last time. Which was not good. She wasn’t healing anymore because she was too debilitated.
If the old man took any more of her blood, or played too many more of his sadistic little games, she wouldn’t survive.
Maybe that was for the best, Meghan thought. This wasn’t the kind of life she’d envisioned for herself. She’d been hoping for college in the city followed by a 9-to-5-rush-home-to-the-suburbs kind of life.
Thanks to Blake that would never be. Blake. That skanky-assed punk vampire.
Meghan swore that if there was one thing she’d do before she met her end—the second time—it would be to see that Blake got his for what he’d done to her.
The creak of the door alerted her to the old man’s arrival and thoughts of revenge were driven away by dread. Meghan pulled at her chains, but it accomplished nothing. He smiled at her foolish attempts, and picked up a scalpel.
Meghan bit back a whimper. She hated when he used the scalpel, but she refused to let him know. Her pride was the only thing she had left. Despite her intentions, however, she couldn’t control her involuntary flinch as the old man ran the flat edge of the blade along her midsection.
