I move in to try the door.
That’s when I realize there’s someone in the room. I duck back but the woman is unaware of my presence. She ’s standing in the shadows under an archway in the back of the room, facing away from me. She ’s agitated, hands waving, shoulders stiff, weight evenly distributed on both feet as if ready to fend off an attack. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I can’t see anyone else in the room.
Is she on a telephone?
My fingers once again find their way to the charm around my neck. Nothing. No warning blast of heat.
Whoever the woman is, she’s not Burke, nor does Burke seem to be in the vicinity.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or thankful.
But it does spur me into action. I have about ten minutes before Turnbull calls Williams. I move to the door and knock.
Startled, the woman jumps and whirls around. She steps into the light.
I find myself staring at one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Not in the traditional sense. Her hair looks windblown, like she may have just come inside, and her features are far from perfect. But she has a glow about her. A natural beauty that radiates from within. It ’s captivating. It’s magnetic. It’s mesmerizing.
Turnbull said she might be a witch.
It’s probably magic.
I shake away the wonder and take a more dispassionate look. She’s not particularly tall, maybe five feet four, but well built and slender.
She’s dressed in jeans, an open-neck shirt of pale yellow and leather riding boots. Her hair is shoulder length, dark and straight, framing thick-lashed blue eyes and a generous mouth.
Right now the mouth is turned down at the corners. She comes to the door and yanks it open. “Yes?”
“Are you Sophie Deveraux?”
She’s staring at me. “Who are you? How did you get back here?”
Seeing her up close, I realize she couldn’t be more than twenty, yet there’s an old soul quality to her that comes through. A maturity of spirit that makes her seem older than her years.
It sends a tremor straight through me. Shit. Is she one of Burke’s customers? Is that why her number was in the file?
“Do you know Simone Tremaine?”
The frown becomes deeper, sterner. “Why do you ask?”
“Look, Ms. Deveraux, I need you to talk to me. If you’re one of Tremaine’s customers, you are in danger. The product you’ve been using has some nasty side effects. I can help you, but you’ve got to tell me if you know where she is.”
A subtle change comes over her. A stillness. She turns away from me and walks into the middle of the room.
I’m right on her heels. “Please. You are not the only one in danger. Tremaine ’s product has already resulted in three deaths, maybe more. She’s a monster. If you know where she’s hiding, you have to tell me.”
“Only three?”
She says it so quietly, I lean close. “What?”
She turns to face me. “Only three deaths? You mean human deaths, right? But there have been others, haven’t there?”
She asks the question as if already knowing the answer.
“Yes. Twelve.”
“Vampires? Like you?”
Her directness at first startles me, then I throw it back at her. “Yes. She tortured and killed them. She bled them. Do you know why?”
Now there’s another shift. Nothing overt, but it’s there in the slump of her shoulders, the softening lines of her mouth. Resignation? She looks away.
“For the cream.” I touch her cheek. “For the magic that turned you from what—a middle-aged housewife—to this. Was it worth it?”
Then Sophie Deveraux does the last thing I expect. She sinks into a chair and begins to cry.
I park myself in front of her and take her chin in my hand.
“I know you’re a witch. I know you’ve used the cream. I have to find Simone Tremaine. I’m desperate. Do you think you can help me do that? Maybe there’s something you know about it that can help me locate her? Some supernatural marker we can use to track her?”
She nods, tentatively, tears still welling in her eyes.
“You are my last chance. If you want to grab a jacket or change clothes, this would be the time.”
She turns those china blue eyes on me. “I don’t need anything. I’ll come with you.”
My cell phone rings. Sophie and I both jump. I fish it out of my jacket. “Yes?”
“Turnbull just called me. What’s going on?”
It’s Williams. “I found Sophie Deveraux. I’m going to bring her back to San Diego. Burke isn’t here, but Sophie has agreed to help us locate her. Call Turnbull and tell him to come to the front gate to pick us up.”
I disconnect, then call the pilot at the hotel. I tell him to get the jet ready, that we ’re on our way to the airport. If he’s surprised at the quick turnaround, his voice doesn’t reflect it. I ring off and shove the phone into my pocket.
It should take about ten minutes for the car to make its way to the front gate.
Sophie sits up in the chair and squares her shoulders. “Have you stopped her from draining them?”
The way she asks it raises goose bumps on my arms. “Yes. We stopped what she was doing with the cream.”
“I’m glad.”
“How did you know about it?”
She stands up. “Because Simone Tremaine is my sister and the cream was my idea.”
CHAPTER 42
I PEER AT THE PERFECT FACE, THE INNOCENCE THAT shines from her eyes. This young girl came up with a plan to bleed vampires to death for the sake of a damned a cosmetic? It doesn’t seem possible. Is she telling the truth?
She releases a breath. “Simone is my sister, but her real name is Belinda Burke. I think you knew that though, didn’t you?”
Not all of it.
I’m immediately suspicious. “Your name is Sophie Deveraux. Not Burke. A friend told me you were a relative of the Jonathan Deveraux who used to live here. How could you be Belinda Burke’s sister?”
A small, sad smile tips the corners of her mouth. “It’s a long story. I’ll—”
There’s a buzz from somewhere in the back of the house. Sophie pauses. “I think your friends are here.”
A Latino housekeeper appears in the doorway. She looks surprised to see that her mistress is not alone. She says something to Sophie in Spanish and Sophie answers. I understand enough to know her housekeeper just announced Turnbull’s arrival. Sophie tells her to open the gate.
Then she turns to me. “It’s time to go.”
She’s not resisting the idea that I want her to come with me. It’s surprising, if she’s the mastermind behind the whole scheme. Still, it’s better than having to drag her kicking and screaming. I keep my eyes on her as she leads the way through a maze of rooms to the front door. If she’s cloaking great power, she’s doing a good job of it.
The limo is right outside the front door. The housekeeper accompanies us, speaking to Sophie in rapid-fire Spanish. I pick up from her expression and the timbre of her voice that she’s afraid for her mistress, mistrustful of the woman with “ojos salvajes” who appeared from nowhere and is now taking her away.
Sophie throws me a calculated glance, reads that I understood most of what the woman was saying and replies with a few reassuring words to her before walking down the steps to the car.
The remark about the “wild-eyed” woman, though, goes unchallenged.
Turnbull is standing outside the car, passenger door open. When Sophie slips in ahead of me, he gives me a raised -eyebrow look and asks, That’s Sophie Deveraux?