I raise my eyebrows, guessing what is to come next but wanting to hear Chael say it anyway.
You must kill him.
I sit back in my chair. Chael, you sly dog. You are either the best actor in the world, or you’ve managed to find a way to cloak your real feelings. I don’t buy for one moment that you’d prefer Steffan’s death over mine.
Chael shrugs, shakes his head. I don’t know what I can do to convince you of my sincerity. I can only report to you what I know. It’s up to you to decide if the threat merits your attention.
Shit. Along with everything going on in my life, my mother’s illness, the upcoming nuptials, I now have one more thing to worry about? Chael knows I can’t let this threat go. At least until I’ve met Steffan and can assess the situation myself. All this I keep hidden from Chael until I open my thoughts to say with a reluctant sigh, Can you arrange a meeting?
Yes. I will do so. How do I get in touch with you?
Is that relief I hear ring through, or satisfaction?
I give him my cell number. I will be busy for the next couple of days. Try to set up the meeting for Thursday evening. Can you do that?
Chael nods and pushes up from the table. I will be in touch.
And then he is gone, melting back into the throng on the sidewalk as subtly and artfully as he appeared.
Frey releases a long breath. “Do you believe him?”
But I have something else I want to say before I talk about Chael. I lean over. “Thank you. For being here. For putting up with this crap. You know it’s not going to get any better. No matter where we go we might run into Chael or one of his counterparts.”
“Comes with the territory,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I knew you were the Chosen One from the beginning. It’s part of the package.”
I take his hand and press it to my lips. “Some package.” Then I sit back. “As far as I can tell, Chael was perfectly sincere in what he said. As for the rest of it, I won’t know about Steffan until we’re face-to-face.”
“You won’t be alone,” Frey says. His jaw tightens. “I will be with you when you meet him.”
I look away. That may not be possible, for Frey’s own protection, but it’s also not something I want to argue about now. In fact, I don’t want to argue about anything. Nor do I want to think about Chael. I have two days before I hear from Chael about a meeting. I motion to the waiter for the check.
“Let’s get back,” I say, gathering the shopping bags. “I want to spend as much time as possible with my folks and the kids. I don’t want to think about Chael or this King Steffan or anything remotely connected with vampires. I want only to think about you and our wedding. Happy things.”
Frey’s brow furrows. “Nice dodge. But I mean it, Anna. I want to be with you when you meet him. We’re a team now. In everything.”
Then Frey is distracted by the waiter arriving with our check. I watch as he presses some bills into the waiter’s hand.
It would be nice to think we could be partners in everything. I know it’s not possible. Just as Chael pointedly ignored Frey, didn’t even acknowledge his presence, I have a feeling this King Steffan would be no less disrespectful. The attitude of most vampires is that we are the top of the supernatural hierarchy and every other creature not only falls far below, but is expendable. I would never risk Frey’s life.
Frey is backing away from the waiter. Evidently my transgression in breaking a cup is forgotten because we’re now being assaulted by an effusive stream of mercis that follow us all the way down the sidewalk.
Either that or somehow our association with the exquisitely dressed Chael has raised his estimation of this casually clad American couple up a notch.
CHAPTER 13
WHEN WE GET BACK TO THE ESTATE, MOM AND Catherine are marshaling the troops in the kitchen like a general and her aide. John-John runs up to me when Frey and I come in and hugs my legs. He doesn’t have to say a word, his shining eyes say it all. Trish follows him over, encircling Frey and I and John-John in a group hug that threatens to topple us all over in its enthusiasm.
Laughing, I pull back. “What’s all this about?” I ask innocently.
Then everyone, Mom, Dad, Trish and John-John are talking at once, each offering a suggestion about what they want to do to help with the wedding preparations. I can tell it’s all they’ve talked about since Frey and I departed. Already, Mom has lined up a caterer, a party planner to handle renting tables and chairs and a local baker to make the cake.
“Wait a minute.” I hold up a hand in protest. “This is supposed to be a small affair, remember?”
“It will be,” Mom insists. “But there are some neighbors we’d like to invite and I’m sure you and Daniel will want to include friends from San Diego. David, for instance. Which reminds me, no time to mail out invitations. You’ll have to call everyone. Better do that tonight. You said your jet was here? Maybe you could arrange to fly—”
She continues to babble happily on. I tilt my head, studying her. I’m happy to see her so animated. I find myself smiling, agreeing to every suggestion. No way will I ruin her glow.
At that moment a tiny germ of an idea takes root. Something Chael said this afternoon.
Maybe I won’t have to.
THE TRIP TO THE CONSULATE GOES SMOOTHLY. UNTIL we’re presented a list of the documentation necessary to marry in France. One item jumps off the page—medical certificate. Blood tests and a medical exam by a French doctor have to be completed before the marriage application can be approved.
The clerk helping us offers a list of doctors to consult, but for the same reason I have avoided my own doctor in San Diego, I know I can’t go to just any doctor in France. I have no idea how vampire physiology differs from human, but I don’t intend to find out now. I glance at Frey. Chances are, he would pass a normal exam and routine blood tests. He is more human than not.
Everything else, passports, birth certificates, certificates certifying that we are free to marry, proof of domicile—all are dispatched with alacrity. Frey has his lawyer friend in San Diego with whom he’s already talked. I call David and he promises to get the bureaucratic wheels spinning for me. After, of course, an excited chorus of whoops from both he and Tracey when I tell him why I’m calling.
Then he says, “By the way, Harris stopped by the office yesterday. You are never going to guess what’s happened? They’ve identified Warren Williams’ killer! And the same guy confessed to killing Judith Williams, too. Can you believe it?”
My breath catches. Not possible. Warren Williams’ killer is a vampire long dead. By my hand. Judith was killed in Monument Valley. Frey’s hands were on that weapon, but I was at his side, urging him to take the shot. It takes me a second to compose myself enough to ask, “Who?”
“Some lowlife ex-con who had a grudge against the chief. Confessed to killing them both and burying Judith Williams’ body in the desert. Left a beautiful letter addressed to the DA before blowing his brains out in front of SDPD headquarters.”
Frey is watching me, reading my body language. We’re back in the car, getting ready to head home. As soon as I end the call with David, he asks, “What’s wrong?”
When I repeat what David told me, he’s as shocked as I am. “Somebody engineered this,” he says. “But who?”
“And why?” If I’m supposed to be relieved that Harris will no longer be harassing Frey and me, the feeling is overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Whoever did me this “favor” will undoubtedly be around at some point to collect for it.