chance in the world that he was actually jealous. And for some reason, that notion banked her anger just slightly.
He’d been stomping away, or doing the closest thing he could do to stomping in the shifting white sand, but he turned back to face her again after only a few steps. “You can’t go home—because you’re wanted by the FBI.”
“What?”
“They’ve named you a person of interest in the murders of Lester Folsom and Will Waters. It’s all over the news. That’s how Brigit learned about your past. They’re saying the trauma of seeing your parents and their entire party murdered in front of your eyes did something to your mind, setting a time bomb in your sanity that finally went off. You snapped, and murdered Folsom and Waters, then ran for your life and have been in hiding ever since. Your face is being plastered everywhere. They’re offering a reward.”
She could barely raise her voice above a whisper to ask, “How much?”
“One million dollars.”
All the life seemed to go out of her at once. She sank down to her knees on the beach.
“I’m sorry, Lucy.” He was trudging toward her again. “I promise you, once my people are safe, I’ll find some way to make all of this up to you.”
Her lips parted to ask how on earth he thought he could possibly do that, but no sound emerged. Her throat was sealed, her stomach empty, her head pounding, her energy utterly gone. She sank down farther, covering her face with her hands. “You’ve ruined everything. God, you’ve ruined my life!”
“Me? How have I—”
“By involving me in your disaster! My career is over. My reputation destroyed. Even my freedom is hanging by a thread.”
“Look, I’m not the one who publicly executed an author and a talk show host, nor am I the one who set you up to take the fall for it.”
“You dragged me into all this! And now there’s no way out for me.”
“There’s one way out.” He sank into the sand in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. “There’s only one way out as far as I can see, Lucy. You’re in this now. You have to see it through to the end. Help me find Utanapishtim. He’s the key to everything, according to the very prophecy you translated. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? That you’re the one who found it, and you’re the one here with me now? I think you were chosen, too. I think you were meant to help us survive.”
She lifted her head slowly. “I think you’d say anything right now to ensure my continued cooperation. And I don’t believe you anymore. You’ve lied to me. Broken promises to me. Abused and insulted me. Kept secrets from me—and I sense you still are.”
He blinked, perhaps surprised by her accuracy.
“Only one thing you’ve said to me rings true right now, James.”
“And which thing is that?” he asked, sounding morose, almost bitter.
“That I have no other way out. So why don’t you just go on inside and leave me alone? I certainly won’t run now that I know I have nowhere else to go.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am, but I’m not going to grovel. Have it your way.”
He got up and walked back toward the house, and she couldn’t help but watch him go.
Standing on the deck, looking out at them, was a woman she’d never seen before. A beautiful woman, tall and curvy, with long masses of raven-wing curls so black they appeared blue in the moonlight. She wore flowing skirts and scarves, an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and more jewelry than Lucy even owned. She had to be Sarafina, the Gypsy. Yet another vampire.
Hell, Lucy thought, just shoot me now.
12
Lucy slept on the beach, refusing to go into the house with James, though he cajoled. In the end she’d insisted, and also insisted that he leave her alone. She wasn’t going to run. Where could she go? And how could she hope to escape with a dozen vampires hot on her trail come sundown? No, she would stay. But she wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about it.
She slept until midafternoon, when hunger pangs hit, and then and only then did she come slowly awake. There was an umbrella stabbed deeply into the sand beside her, providing shade, and she wondered who had taken the time to put it there, even as she stood up, stretched and brushed the sand from her jeans. Staring out at the ocean,