Blood Drive (Anna Strong Chronicles #2)

When I step through the mystic waterfall shielding the entrance to - whatever that was - I'm relieved to be back outside. Frey and Williams seemed very much at home in those strange surroundings. I'm much more comfortable in this one.

But I'm also struck with the painful awareness that I don't have a plan. I hardly know more than I did when I found Trish hiding in my garage. But I do have one untapped resource. Ryan.

And the instant I think it, I realize I've left his number in the pocket of the jeans I was wearing yesterday. On the way back to the apartment, the fact that I seem to be going in circles, literally as well as figuratively, is frustrating enough to make me laugh out loud.

When I get off the elevator, I am greeted by a couple of burly construction types hanging my new door. I don't see the building manager around, and I really don't like the fact that strangers have access to my apartment. My discomfort, however, is nothing compared to the awkwardness of the two guys when they watch me approach and realize that I'm the occupant.

The guy holding the door clears his throat. Loudly.

The second guy sends a skittering glance into the apartment.

It's at that moment I know.

I put a finger to my lips and shake my head.

They nod in comprehension, obviously bright enough to recognize it's my favor they need to curry.

I slip inside and pause to listen. There's a rustling of fabric, a slide of wood against wood as drawers are opened and closed.

Someone is going through my things.

I catch him in the bathroom, at my hamper. He sifts through the clothes inside, selects a pair of panties and shoves them into a pocket. His malevolent little face is scrunched up in a smile.

"You should have taken the black ones, Burdick. Pink is not your color."

Burdick's breath catches in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut. He reminds me of an ostrich who thinks because his head is buried, the rest of his body has disappeared, too.

I cross over to him, clucking my tongue.

He doesn't open his eyes.

I put a hand on his shoulder. He jumps.

I take his shoulders and turn him to face me, away from the mirrors.

"But, you know, I think we can work this out."

He grunts.

"I want to move out. This weekend. But, gee, that means I can't give the proper notice. That won't be a problem, though, will it?"

At that, he opens one eye and moves his head slowly from right to left. As far as I can tell, he has yet to draw a breath.

"And as for the deposit, I want it back. First and last month's rent and my security deposit. All of it. In a check on Saturday. That's three days from now. Think you can arrange it?"

That at last provokes a reaction. "All of it? I don't think I can do that - "

"Of course you can, Burdick. It will be a lot less expensive than defending yourself against the charges I could bring against you for this. Especially since I have two witnesses right outside. They seem like smart guys. They aren't going to jeopardize their own skins for you."

He opens the other eye, his lips press into a thin line, and his brows scrunch together. "How do I know you won't press charges anyway?"

"You don't," I respond cheerfully. "Guess you'll just have to trust me."

There's a timid knock from outside and an anxious voice calls in, "Burdick, we're done here. Should we wait for you?"

I answer for him. "Yeah. He's on his way out."

Burdick manages to gather his wits about him enough to straighten his shoulders and steady his voice as he prepares to leave. "Okay. You'll get your check. I don't want any trouble." He starts to pull the panties out of his pocket.

I stop him with an upturned hand. "Keep them." As if I could ever imagine wearing them again. There isn't a disinfectant strong enough. "Consider them payment for the door."

I follow him out and close and deadbolt the door with a decisive click. When I'm alone, I realize my hands are shaking.

How many assholes am I going to have to deal with in my immortal life? How many monsters like the creeps who hurt Trish, and how many insignificant insects like Burdick? Is this what I have to look forward to for all eternity?

I return to the bathroom to splash water on my face. The towel I grab to dry off has a scent clinging to it - Max's. I bring it to my face and inhale. It's a reminder that there are good men out there.

Good man.

Another complication I can't face right now.

My jeans are in a pile on the living room floor. I fish Ryan's number out of the pocket. The idea that Burdick might have touched them, too, or the underwear tucked inside when I pulled them off, makes me cringe. But hopefully he wouldn't have been depraved enough to touch things in full view of his workman.

I can only hope.

To be on the safe side, I handle the jeans with two fingers and dump them into the hamper. Maybe I should burn them.

Then I focus on the number, written in precise, uniform numerals. The stamp of a budding engineer. I dial it and he picks up on the first ring.

"Where is she?" he demands in a rough whisper.

"Why are you whispering?"

I can hear his teeth grind. "I'm in class. We aren't supposed to have our cell phones on. Tell me. What have you done with Trish?"

I glance at my watch. I never gave a thought to the time. "When is school over?"

"In about an hour. Damn it. Where is Trish?"

"What school?"

There is a voice in the background calling Ryan's name impatiently. He snaps back at me, "Mission Bay High."

"I'll be out front. Look for a red Jag."

He doesn't have a chance to answer. The connection is cut, probably by some angry teacher. Hopefully, I didn't get him into too much trouble. How am I going to convince him that Trish is safe and that it's in her best interest to give me that computer? He certainly isn't easily frightened or intimidated - not by me anyway.

I blow out a lungful of air, trying to expel the negative energy that darkens my mood. I look around the apartment. At least I'll be getting out of here. That triggers the thought that I never did get around to having my furniture delivered. That number is in my purse, and after calling the store and arranging delivery on Saturday, I actually feel a little better. Saturday. Three days from now. I'll be moving back into my own place. The DNA test results will be back and I'll find out just how good Sorrel is.

Three days.