She looked down at him, her eyes widening with shock when she saw him looking back at her.
“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting up.
“I’m…you were…” She glanced at his chest. The ugly holes were growing smaller, the flesh knitting together, until only smooth skin remained. “How…?” She looked up at her mother, then back at Vince. “My father was right. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
Vince nodded. “I wanted to tell you, but…”
Pushing herself away from him, she stood, one hand braced against the wall.
There was a whoosh of supernatural power as Brenna sent the creature back where it belonged.
Cara glanced at the place where the creature had stood, looked at her mother, and then stared at Vince. Zombies and witches and vampires, oh my. She wondered where her father had gone, but at the moment, it didn’t seem to matter. She had to get out of here, she thought desperately, she had to go someplace where she could be alone to sort out her thoughts.
Vince reached out to her, but she brushed his hand away. She wasn’t ready to deal with him yet, wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see him again.
She took a step and then, feeling suddenly lightheaded, she dropped to her knees, felt herself spiraling down, down, into oblivion.
Chapter 38
Cara woke in her bed in her parents’ house with no memory of how she had gotten there. The sun was shining through the windows and she was alone in her room. For a moment, her mind was mercifully blank and then, like the ocean at high tide, it all came flooding back—Anton and the creature, her mother and Vince coming to the rescue, Vince getting shot…
Vince. Her father had been right. Vince was a vampire…vampire…vampire.
The word echoed and re-echoed in her mind. Vampire.
She told herself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t important. Her parents were vampires and she still loved them. She stared out the window, reliving the moments in the basement last night, recalling the sharp report of the gunshots, the acrid stink of gunpowder, the sickly sweet scent of blood. Vince’s blood. Vampire blood, oozing from the wounds in his chest. She recalled, all too vividly, the coolness of his skin, the sticky wetness of his blood on her hands, her certainty that he was dead, and then the miracle of watching his torn flesh heal right before her eyes.
Vampire.
Undead.
She had always imagined she and her husband sharing intimate, candlelit dinners at home, dining out in nice restaurants on birthdays or anniversaries. Did she want to spend the rest of her life eating her meals alone?
How would she feel in ten years or twenty, when she showed the signs of aging and he didn’t? Did she want to live with a man who would look forever young, a man who couldn’t go outside during the day?
Did she love him enough to accept him as he really was? Did she want to spend the rest of her life with a man who wasn’t a man at all?
Did she want to spend the rest of her life without him?
She felt betrayed because he hadn’t been honest with her. Neither had her parents, she thought ruefully. She could understand her parents’ reluctance to tell her the truth. She could understand Vince’s, too, but the fact remained that, right or wrong, good reasons or not, the people she loved most in the world had all lied to her. It was worse with Vince, though. He had let her fall in love with him when she didn’t really know who, or what, he was.
With a sigh, she realized that the signs had been there all the time, but she had refused to see them—arriving late at Sarah Beth’s so he wouldn’t have to explain why he didn’t eat dinner, never leaving the garage when the sun was up, always leaving her house before dawn. She had never seen him eat or drink anything except that glass of wine at her parents’ house and a Bloody Mariah. She frowned thoughtfully, wondering why he could drink wine and nothing else.
Where was he now? Where was her dad? He had left the basement last night in pursuit of Anton, and she hadn’t seen him since.
She glanced at the clock. It was time to get ready for work. For the first time, the thought held no appeal.
She got ready anyway, thinking that going to work would help keep her mind off Vince.
With a start, she realized she hadn’t seen or heard from Frank since the day he had driven her to her house. Had he been hurt? Was he in the hospital again?
Ashamed for not thinking about him sooner, she hurried out to his house in the back and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Biting down on her lower lip, she turned the knob, somewhat surprised when the door opened.
She had never been inside his house before. It was small and surprisingly neat for a man who lived alone. The furniture was sparse but of good quality. A number of photographs sat on the mantel. She moved closer for a better look. The first depicted a young couple holding a little boy. There were three other photos of the same couple. The boy was older in each picture; in the last one, it was easy to see that the boy was Frank. There were several photos of a beautiful young woman. Was it Frank’s sister, or was the woman the reason he had never married?
Cara blinked back tears when she looked at the last two photos. One was a picture of herself sitting on a pony when she was about five or six, the other was her graduation picture.
“Oh, Frank,” she murmured, thinking that he had devoted most of his life to protecting her. She wished she knew where he was, wished she could crawl into her father’s lap and let him make everything right again, the way he had when she was a child. So much had happened that she didn’t know about and didn’t understand. Where was Anton? Was he still a threat? Where was her father?
Where was Vince? She told herself she didn’t care, that she never wanted to see him again, but in the far reaches of her heart and soul, she was afraid it was a lie.
Wiping away her tears, she left Frank’s house and went to get ready for work.
Vince prowled the confines of his hotel room, his mind in turmoil. He had planned to leave town, to leave Cara when he was certain she was out of danger, and now that she knew what he was, leaving seemed like the wisest thing to do, and yet he couldn’t go, not until he had seen her one more time. Not until she told him, in her own words, that she never wanted to see him again. Until then, he clung to the faint hope that she would understand, that she would find it in her heart to forgive him for withholding the truth for so long.
Raking a hand through his hair, he dropped down on the sofa, one hand idly scratching Cat’s ears. He wondered if DeLongpre had found Anton, and if so, what he had done to the bastard, and if DeLongpre had gone to the police to report Di Giorgio’s death, and what story he had concocted. He was pretty sure no mention had been made of witchcraft or zombies rising from the dead.