Chosen (Anna Strong Chronicles #6)

Chosen (Anna Strong Chronicles #6) Page 15

No. It can't be true.

I jump up, away from Lance, not wanting to look at him, not trusting myself to be close.

I feel everything he's feeling. A hurricane of conflicting emotions.

It doesn't matter.

Because mingled with the regret, the fear, the love, is everything he's hidden from me.

The lie that it had been Culebra who sent him to me as a distraction all those months ago. That Underwood and Williams were working together. They wanted someone to get close to me. Someone supernatural. Someone who could be controlled. Someone I would be attracted to.

They sent me Lance.

Bile burns the back of my throat. I clutch my stomach to keep from gagging.

How could I have been so naive? I think back to conversations I had with Culebra about Lance-I never once broached the subject of how he knew Lance. I never thought to ask. I didn't care. I was gullible and accepted Lance as eagerly as a bitch offered a pork chop.

Oh, and how that fucker Williams played me. He made fun of my relationship with Lance. Made me defend it. Knew if he mocked it, I'd most likely stay with Lance.

And I did.

God.

I want to howl with rage.

How could I have been so stupid?

I have to get out of here.

Where are my car keys?

I dart frantically around the room. My head and stomach-my blood-is on fire. I sweep things off the nightstand, Lance's mug, a book, a lamp. The sound of breaking pottery doesn't quell the thirst for vengeance. I grab a chest at the end of the bed. Push it with so much force it slams into the wall.

Even the splintering of wood, the rain of broken plaster, is not enough. Fury makes the animal leap to the surface.

I feel Lance, moving toward me. I whirl to face him.

He stops. He sees it in my face. Danger. The animal enraged, betrayed. The animal wounded.

He steps back.

Finally. I spy my keys and purse on a chair. Where I'd thrown them after finding Lance last night.

Last night.

I can't think about it now.

I can't think of anything except getting away from here.

Lance tries to reason with me. He holds out his arms. He uses words like danger and risk, caution and threat. Empty words from far away that ricochet around my head like leaves in a whirlwind. He wants to protect me.

I bare my teeth, laugh and snarl. "You can't protect yourself."

He lets his hands fall to his side. He has no answer to rebut the truth.

I'm done.

I don't bother with shoes. I run downstairs, almost smacking into Adele. She jumps out of the way. She has a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. I smell the hot coffee as it spills, see her jerk as it scalds her. She yelps.

I don't stop.

"Anna, what's wrong?"

But I'm past her. Her voice trails behind me as I race through that cavernous house. Too much space that suddenly feels claustrophobic, I'm so anxious to get away.

From far off, I hear Lance pounding down the stairs, too. I have a wide lead. I hit the remote control on my way out the back door and by the time the garage door opens, I've got the Jag in gear and I'm screeching out of the driveway.

I'm at the gate when an explosion shakes the car.

A boom. Deafening. Painful. My hands clasp my ears.

Then silence. Nothing until the security guard is out of the guardhouse and pounding on my window. "Are you all right?"

I look up at him, ears ringing, head reeling, smell of blood in my nose. I open the door, stumble out. "What the hell was that?"

He's looking over my shoulder, back the way I came. "I don't know. Came from the direction of one of the houses."

One of the houses? I follow his gaze. Black smoke roils up against the distant sky. There aren't that many houses on this road. I can see half of them from here.

I can't see Lance's.

Jesus.

I start to run, oblivious to the guard's pleading that I should stay with him, that I'm hurt.

Hurt? It isn't until he says it that I realize the blood I smell is my own. I must have hit my forehead on the steering wheel or the dash. I don't know. I don't care. I wipe the blood out of my eyes with a forearm and keep going. The fastest way is over fences, through yards. Easy for me. Easy for vampire.

Follow the smell, the smoke. Acrid. Metal and rubber.

A car?

No one around. No one peering out windows or spilling from doors to see what happened. Where the hell is everyone? Are these all vacation homes? Are they all empty? No matter. The absence of mortals gives the vampire rein.

Two minutes and I'm at the scene.

The last house at the end of the road. A ball of flame surrounds a red MG.

Lance's car.