How we have only a few hours left to save them.
How if we fail, if my friends die, I will hold both her and her sister responsible. Sophie is the only leverage I have to force Burke’s hand.
Reasonable or not, I’ll use it.
I have to. I don’t have that many friends left.
CHAPTER 44
SOPHIE IS QUIET FOR A LONG MOMENT WHEN I finish. If she’s shocked that I am holding her as responsible as her sister, she’s not showing it. Rather, there is understanding and sympathy in her expression. And a tacit agreement to help. Deveraux is quiet, too. I ’m glad. I’m not sure how I would have reacted if he’d thrown out another smart-ass comment.
The intercom buzzes and Tom’s voice comes on. “We’re beginning our descent into San Diego. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened. Ms. Strong, Mr. Williams radioed to say that he’ll meet your party in the terminal.”
My eyes seek Sophie’s. “I hope the connection between you and your sister is powerful.”
She understands what I’m saying. I see it in the depths of her eyes. If sacrificing Sophie is the only way to break Burke’s spell or to bring her out of hiding, I won’t hesitate.
Williams is waiting for us when we deplane. There is no warmth in his greeting when I introduce Sophie. I tell Williams that Sophie is Belinda’s sister and that she’s going to help us stop the bitch. Williams is grim. He blames Burke for Ortiz’ death and now finding the witch is as important to him as it is to me. He only wants to exact revenge, however, which means I’ll have to make sure Burke’s hold on Culebra and Frey is broken before he strikes.
All this goes through my head as we start toward the car Williams has waiting for us. It ’s a big Lincoln Navigator. I take the front passenger seat and Sophie climbs in back. Deveraux is silent. I don’t know whether he’s made his presence known to Williams or not, but I don’t mention it and Williams is guarding his thoughts, letting nothing through.
Sophie finally speaks once we’re all in the car and Williams has started the engine.
“I understand what you want me to do. But to reach Belinda, I’ll need a few things.”
Not Where are we going? or What are you planning to do to me?
I put a “hold it” hand on Williams’ arm and turn to face her.
“What do you need?”
“Black beeswax candles. Herbs. Horehound. Golden-seal. Angelica. Foxglove. I’d prefer fresh, but dried will do. A crystal goblet and holy water.” She lists the items as calmly as a grocery list.
“What? No fatted calf for sacrifice? ” Aggravation spikes my voice up a few notches. “Where are we supposed to get fresh horehound?
Christ. Are you kidding me?”
It’s Williams’ turn to do the “hold it” thing. “I know.”
He steers the car out of the parking lot and heads up PCH to Laurel. From there we jump on 5 South. He takes Imperial Avenue to 15
South and exits on National.
No one has spoken since we left the airport. I break the silence. “Where are we going?”
Williams is heading into a residential area in a shabby part of town. He navigates the maze of streets with an ease borne of familiarity. He doesn’t answer until we pull up to a tiny, weather-beaten cottage off Thirty-fourth. “Here,” he says.
The cottage sits on a lot under the freeway. The pollution and dust from the thousands of cars that pass by each day coat the shingles with a gray haze. I couldn’t begin to guess what the original color was. What we can see from the curb is a ramshackle fence and an overgrown yard. Vegetation is so thick, it’s difficult to distinguish one plant from another. The tangle of growth extends around the sides of the house, giving the impression that the cottage is an afterthought planted in the middle of a jungle.
“This will do nicely.”
Sophie’s voice from the backseat.
I turn toward her. The question, “For what?” dies on my lips. Her eyes are shining, fixed on the yard. She has a hand on the door.
I take another look at the yard. Obviously she sees something I do not.
Sophie climbs out and goes through the gate, scanning right and left. She stoops and plucks a few leaves from one of the plants, moves to the next, repeats the process.
“What is this place? ” I ask Williams, following him as he trails behind Sophie.
Before he can answer, the front door opens. An old woman walks onto the porch. She doesn’t look at Sophie poking through her yard like a bloodhound on the scent. Instead, she looks directly at Williams and me.
“Your kind are not welcome here,” she says, pointing a skeletal finger. “Get out of my yard.”
The woman looks a hundred years old, with a wizened, lined face, silver -and-gold-streaked hair drawn up in a bun. She’s stooped-shouldered, supporting her weight on a shiny aluminum walker. But her voice is commanding and her tone sends a chill up my spine.
Williams bows his head. “Sorry, Mother. We will wait for our friend outside your fence.”
I don’t know what surprises me more: his gesture of deference to the old woman or the reverence in his tone. My spidey sense is telling me not to argue. I follow him quietly out of the yard.
When we’re standing beside the car, the old woman limps down the steps, her long black skirt dragging in the dust. She goes to Sophie.
The young girl and the old woman look at each other for a moment, not speaking, not communicating in any way I can tell. Then, abruptly, the two embrace, move apart and, arms entwined, stoop together over a patch of weeds.
“What the hell was that?” I ask. “And what did she mean by our kind not being welcome?”
Williams leans against the car. “Vampires. Vampires are not welcome here. She’s a crone. Do you know what that is?”
I rack my brain. I know I’ve heard the term. “Earth mother? Divine feminine? Am I close?”
“Close.”
He doesn’t elaborate. When I prod, he adds, “Her name is Eldora. She’s well known in the magical community.”
Not much in the way of useful information but by the set of his jaw and the curtain drawn around his thoughts, I know it’s all I’m going to get. I try a different tack. “What does she have against vampires?”
“Immortality. Humans are born, they live, they die. Vampires threaten the cycle, subvert the natural order.”
Immortality? “Living forever offends her, but blood-sucking does not?”
His shoulders lift, fall. “Didn’t say it made sense. It’s just the way it is.”
“What powers does she possess?”
“None that I know of.”
That gets a double take from me. “Then why the reverence? You did everything but grovel at her feet.”
He shoots me a pitying look. “Respect. But I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the concept.”
The all-too-recognizable deprecating Williams is back. Naturally, my hackles rise. I bite back an angry retort and turn away, focusing on Sophie. She’s still rummaging around the yard, the old woman following behind her. Sophie points to this and that, plucks leaves, crushes them between her fingers. The old woman watches the beautiful young girl with rapt attention.
An interesting reversal of roles. Wonder if she recognizes the eighty -year-old spirit of Sophie the witch trapped in that young body?
Does she sense they are kindred spirits? Wonder what she’d think if Deveraux put in an appearance.
The attention Williams is paying to Sophie, though, is not as positive. “Do you think we can trust her?” he asks finally.