FREY'S OTHER FORM IS PANTHER. WHEN HE SLINKS out from behind the bar, I marvel again at the strange creatures I've come in contact with since becoming vampire. Creatures I thought existed only in the pages of novels or on the big screen. Some are beautiful and inspire awe, like this sleek, man-sized cat full of grace and primitive power. Others, like Avery and Simon Fisher, were vampires who inspired fear and dread.
I'm still not sure where I fit in the continuum.
Frey approaches, alert, watchful. His eyes hold a spark of humanity though I know from seeing him in action that the cat is in full control. He looks at me, then moves to the door. I follow him outside.
I realize once we set off down the road that I should have asked him where we were going. But it's no problem for me to keep up. He trots ahead, muscles bunching and releasing under a pelt of dark fur. I follow, my own senses probing the night.
There's no moon. The sky is huge and black and filled with a million stars never seen in a city sky. I spy diamonds moving swiftly overhead, airplanes, and the slower moving pinpoints of light are satellites traveling around the earth in their solitary orbits.
I smell mesquite and dust and the decay of recent death. Animal. I wonder if it's the coyote Frey mentioned earlier. I see the outlines of cactus and rock and scrub oak. I also see the small creatures that slither or run away at our approach. Whether they're running from the panther or the vampire, I can't tell. Tonight they needn't fear either. I hear the calls of birds, the "ping" of bat radar, the single, lonely cry of a wolf somewhere far from us. It carries on the still, night air like an echo from another time.
I'm filled again with a sense of wonder. I've never let the animal inside me free to observe the world from this perspective. When the vampire is released, it's to feed or fight. This is a new experience. Exhilarating. Liberating. For the moment at least, I push worry for Max into a dark corner of my mind. Right next to anxiety over what will happen to Culebra if Frey is wrong.
Frey keeps going, deep into the desert, away from the road. He doesn't hesitate or falter but continues at the same pace until we're miles from the saloon. We hit no obstacles. I guess the witches did not expect anyone to approach from the heart of the desert. Approach what? I still don't know.
Lights appear on the horizon. And I hear other noises now, sounds of traffic and the acceleration and deceleration of airplane engines. We're nearing the Tijuana airport. But from the desert side. The lights of the city of Tijuana stretch beyond. Are we going into the city? Would the witch be planning to work her magic in the middle of a city?
Frey keeps going straight toward the airport. When we're about a half mile away, he veers toward an industrial park. Or what passes in Mexico as an industrial park. It's more like a landfill, but one dotted with junkyards, truck yards and small warehouses and workshops. The place floods with light when airplanes approach the runways, only to be plunged into darkness when they've passed overhead. It's like being in a time loop of accelerated sunrise and sunset, made all the more eerie because I detect nothing human here at all. Big trucks and small tractors crouch like cowering beasts. A dog barks inside one of the buildings but it's more a howl of loneliness than a growl of warning. The place feels utterly empty.
Frey trots up to one of the warehouses. He looks up at me. Then back toward the door.
Doesn't take a genius to understand what he wants. But before I open that door, I put an ear to it. I don't want to be surprised by a welcoming party. I detect nothing. No movement. No sound.
The door has an old-fashioned latch. It lifts with a touch. No lock. I half expect a siren or alarm to go off as I gently tug the wooden door open a fraction of an inch. When nothing happens, I pull it back wide enough for Frey and me to scramble inside.
The instant I pass over that threshold, I'm hit by a wave of fear as tangible and painful as a gunshot. It knocks me back, breathless, shaking, numb, pins me against the wall with invisible hands. Images fill my head. The essence of anything that has ever scared me, every nightmare, takes physical shape and hovers before me, ready to attack. Donaldson is there, the vampire who turned me, and Avery. Fisher, grinning and blood soaked, reaches out to pull me close to him. I feel his claws dig into my arms, his bared teeth snap at my throat. My blood spills over his hands.
These nightmares inflict pain.
I can't move. The rational part of my brain knows this isn't real. It can't be. Donaldson, Avery, Fisher are gone. I saw Donaldson and Avery disintegrate into dust, felt the last shudder as I drained the life from Fisher. This is not real. Still, the instinctive part of my brain screams to run. Get out before it's too late. My body tenses to take flight. I have no choice. If I'm to survive, I have to leave this place. Leave and never come back. If I'm to live.
"Anna. Where are you?"
A voice shouts from the void. It's far away. Too far away to help. Fisher and Avery press closer. Avery is smiling. His hands trace a path down my cheek, across my breast. I'm naked and where his fingers touch, my skin blackens and sloughs off. I try to slink away but I can't. The door to the warehouse swings open. A light shines in. Outside. I have to get outside. That's where I'll be safe.
My feet break free. I scream and whirl away from the nightmare. Move. Run.
A hand pulls me back.
No.
A voice. "Anna."
Over and over. Familiar. Coaxing.
But it can't save me. If I don't leave this place, I'll die. Avery tells me. Fisher and Donaldson. Get away. Save yourself.
I slash at the hand holding me. It doesn't let go. I snarl and bite down until I taste blood. Still, I'm held fast. Furious, the vampire erupts. Blindly, I seek the throat of the creature. I find it and rip until the blood washes over my tongue. I drink.
And at the first taste, I know.
The blood. The taste, the texture, the essence. I recognize it. I know this creature.
It doesn't matter.
I can't stop.
The voice doesn't scream or beg. It doesn't struggle or pull away. It's grown quiet and still. Waiting.
That is what stops me.
I burrow against its neck, but not to drink. To listen. To understand. And when I grow quiet, too, it puts its arms around me and holds me. Then it pulls me forward, and I'm falling.
Falling.
Into the void.
