Anna and the Vampire Prince (3 page)

I fold up the paper, pay my bill, and head back to the estate.

Trish is somber when she returns from school in the afternoon. The news of the dead girl, Elizabeth Garnier, spread quickly throughout her class. It had been especially hard on Cecily, who organized a letter writing campaign of condolence notes to be sent to the Garnier family. Somehow the media got wind of it, and television crews were on campus to watch the collection of the notes. Cecily was even interviewed for a spot on the evening news. We watch while eating dinner on TV trays. Thanks to English close-captioning, I don’t have to constantly interrupt to have Dad or Trish translate.

Cecily Gerard, a sweet-faced girl with bright blue eyes and honey blonde hair, is composed as she reads the note she’s sending to her friend’s family. She speaks of her sorrow and shares a story of friendship with the girl. She closes the note with a sincere hope that her note, and the notes of others, will offer some peace to the family.

Trish is crying as the interview comes to a close. Dad and I swipe at threatening tears ourselves. Maybe because death had been a recent visitor to our family, we feel a particular kinship with this girl’s.

The notes won’t take away any of the pain, but the knowledge that there are others who understand might help ease the burden a bit.

The rest of the newscast centers on the police inquiry and the growing antagonism sweeping the Marseilles area toward the immigrant population. The police were doing their best to quell the animosity, but until they catch the killers, everyone who speaks a different language is suspect.

“That’s not a good sign,” I mumble as the news program drew to an end.

Dad is gathering the dinner dishes from our trays. “No. I wonder every day if my French workers are going to start showing some hostility toward the immigrants working for me. I’d hate to see that.”

“Why can’t they catch the killers?” Trish asks. “The police must have some idea who’s behind it.”

“I’m sure they’re doing their best.” I squeeze her shoulders. “But in the meantime, you
are
careful about talking to strangers, right? And you don’t go wandering off alone, even on the schoolyard, do you?”

“Aunt Anna,” she snaps. “I’m not a child, you know.”

But there is something else behind her words. Knowledge. Trish’s childhood was marred by a monster of a mother who pimped her out to men for money. She’s come a long way from that horrific time, but it will always be a part of her psyche.

“I know you’re not a child,” I whisper. “But neither were those girls.”

Trish starts to reply, but her cell phone chimes. She glances at the caller ID. “It’s Cecily. I’ll take it in my room.”

I can see she’s relieved to get away. I finish clearing the dishes and join Dad in the kitchen.

“Where’s Trish?” Dad asks.

“She was saved from the clutches of an over-protective aunt by a telephone call. She’s up in her room.” I stack the dishes on the counter. “I’ll wash if you dry.”

Dad moves aside so I can fill the sink with hot, soapy water.

“Be careful,” he says, watching steam rise. “You’ll burn yourself.”

I can’t tell him I’m impervious to heat and cold so I dutifully add a little cold water to the mix.

While we’re doing the dishes, he says, “I must admit, I’m more than a little nervous about what’s happening in Marseilles. The French have a name for where most immigrants live,
banelieu défavorisée,
poor areas that are considered by other residents as lawless. Even the government is more comfortable letting them settle things on their own terms. A throwback to the time when the Mafia ran Marseilles.”

“The Mafia? You don’t think of the Mafia as being a French thing.”

“Ran the city for decades.” He shrugs. “After a recent drive-by shooting, a local shopkeeper was heard to say that despite the bloodshed, he doesn’t live in fear for himself or his business. The bad guys here know how to aim, he said. They never hit customers.”

“Why are the police so sure it’s an immigrant gang taking the girls?”

“Because they’re a convenient target. Half the locals believe France should never have let foreigners into the country.” Dad puts the finishing touch on the last of the silverware and dries his hands. “Of course, we who run vineyards would be lost without immigrant workers. The ones I have are hard-working, loyal, and only trying to provide for their families.”

“Have you received any threats?” I ask.

But before he can answer, Trish joins us in the kitchen. Her face, freshly scrubbed of tears, is still somber.

“You’re timing is impeccable,” I tell her. “We just finished the dishes.”

But she doesn’t smile. “Sorry.”

“How is Cecily?” Dad asks.

Her shoulders rise in a half-shrug. “She’s not sure she’ll be at school tomorrow. She and her mom are taking the letters to Elizabeth’s parents.”

“Then I’ll drive you tomorrow morning,” I say. “And I’ll pick you up from school, too.”

She shoots me a
really?
look.

But she doesn’t voice an objection.

It’s just as well. It would have done her no good.

Trish’s school is just outside the city boundaries—it’s a Catholic school, a big, brick multi-level monstrosity run by the Jesuits. At three, she’s waiting for me. I pull into the driveway behind a line of cars that stretches back to the street. Across the street, two police cars are stationed. Four officers are keeping an eye on the students.

“I don’t remember there ever being this many parents picking up students,” I comment, navigating around the jam.

“This is new,” she says. “As are the police over there.” What she doesn’t add, what she has no need to add, is that it’s because of the kidnappings.

“Did Cecily make it to school?”

Trish shakes her head. “She left a message on my cell that she’d see me tomorrow.”

She’s clutching her books to her chest like a lifeline.

“Do you have much homework?” I ask.

Another shake of the head.

“Then how about you and I go riding this afternoon? I’m sure the neighbors would welcome the help with horses.”

Trish straightens a little in the seat. “You’ll go with me?”

“If you don’t take off like a bat out of hell and leave me in the dust.”

Trish actually smiles. “I promise.”

I don’t tell Trish, but for that smile she could leave me anywhere she wanted.  

We get back from our horseback ride just as Dad is returning from his day in the vineyards.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “You look a little stiff.”

Trish starts to laugh, hiding her face behind her hands.

I frown at her. “She rides like a racehorse jockey. I’m going to be sore for a week.” Sad, but true. Even a vampire can feel the result of bouncing on a saddle for two hours.

He links arms with us. “Let’s go into town for dinner,” he says. “But you two need to shower first. You both smell like a stable.”

Trish races to the house while Dad and I follow behind at a more leisurely pace.

“Thank you for taking Trish riding,” he says to me. “I can tell she enjoyed it.”

“I did, too. Really.” I rub my aching butt with the palm of my hand. “But my body isn’t so happy.”

We’re at the front door when we hear the phone ringing inside. Dad steps through first and goes to the kitchen to answer it. In a minute, he’s back, phone in hand, a deep frown darkening his face. He mouths at me,
Get Trish.

The hair on the back of my neck starts to rise. I take the stairs two at a time, calling out for Trish as I go. She meets me in the hall in front of her bedroom door. She’s wrapped in a robe.

“What’s the matter?”

“Dad wants you downstairs.”

I’m trying to keep panic from reflecting on my face and voice and evidently, failing.

Her expression soon mirrors what I’m feeling. “What’s wrong?”

Dad’s voice reaches us from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down, Trish.”

She and I exchange a look of concern. Whatever it is, we both know, it’s not good.

Dad has the phone in one hand when Trish and I get downstairs. He holds it out to Trish. “It’s Cecily’s mother. She needs to talk to you.”

Trish takes the phone while Dad steers me a few steps away with a hand on my elbow. “Mrs. Gerard called for Cecily. She said her daughter left for school at noon and thought she planned to come home with Trish to go over lines for their play. At least that was the message she received from Cecily about two this afternoon. She was calling to see if she should come round to pick her up.”

My heart plummets, remembering that Trish said Cecily left
her
a message that she wouldn't be at school at all. I look at Trish, clutching the phone in a shaking hand, and try to stay calm despite the tornado of panic sweeping over me.

Trish’s eyes are wide with alarm. She listens to Mrs. Gerard, responds in French, and listens some more.

I don’t catch all the French, but I know she told Mrs. Gerard about the message she got on her cell. The rest is clear when Trish slowly lowers the phone and meets our eyes.

“Cecily’s missing,” she whispers.

Trish sits between us on the couch. “Mrs. Gerard said she let Cecily off at a corner bakery near the school. So she could get a croissant—she’d missed school lunch. She was supposed to eat, then go to class.”

Trish’s voice trembles as she continues, “Mrs. Gerard got a text message from Cecily at two, saying she was coming home with me to study lines for the play. She was supposed to call her mother to come pick her up when we were finished.”

A wave of nausea hits me like a gut punch. Whatever happened, it had been carefully orchestrated to make sure Cecily wouldn’t be missed until early evening. If this were any other kid in any other place, what happened might be viewed by the police as a simple case of a teenager running away.

But in this particular time and place, I’m afraid there’s little doubt that Cecily is another kidnapping victim.

“What else did she say, honey?” I ask gently.

Trish was trying hard not to cry. “That she was going to call the police. She’s afraid that Cecily—”

She can’t finish the sentence, her words strangling in her throat. 

I’m close to tears, too. But mine are tears of anger. My first thought is that
I
know whom to call. This may not be the Marseilles thing that Vlad referred to at the cottage, but he’s going to help me find Trish’s friend. I’ll make sure of it. He has connections on both sides of the law.

I won’t let Trish lose anyone else.

Vlad agrees to come to the house in the morning. He doesn’t let on if the kidnappings had anything to do with his own concerns, and he doesn’t argue that it’s not vampire business, but says he’ll look into it for me.

By the time I’m off the phone with Vlad, the police are at our door. Dad leads them into the living room.

The officers who come to take Trish’s statement are both middle-aged males, paunchy, with faces marked by the weight of the tragedy they’ve come to investigate. They speak in French too fast for me to understand. Trish and Dad have no trouble, though, and I watch as they ping-pong back and forth—asking and answering questions. If I had any doubts before, the expressions on the officers’ faces confirm that they fear Cecily is the latest victim in the string of kidnappings.

As they talk, I remember what I read about the crimes. The parents all got ransom demands, paid them, but the girls were killed anyway. How much time transpired between the ransom calls and the discovery of the bodies? Three days, I think, before the bodies were found in Northern Marseilles.

The police finish their inquiry and Dad shows them out. “You look worn out,” he says to Trish. “Why don’t you go on up to bed? If we hear anything, we’ll wake you.”

She looks like she’s going to object. She also looks bone-weary. “Go on, Trish,” I add. “Even if you can’t sleep, just lie down.”

But she shakes her head. “I want to be right here if there’s any news.”

“Okay.” I take an afghan from the back of the couch. “Then at least wrap up and stretch out on the couch. How’s that?”

She takes the afghan from my hands. “Okay. But I won’t sleep.”

“Just rest.” I tuck her in, plumping a pillow beneath her head. “Dad and I will be in the kitchen if you need us.”

She nods wearily. Dad leans over to kiss her cheek. “We’re right here, sweetie-pie.”

He follows me into the kitchen. I pull the pocket door closed behind us before asking, “What did the police say?”

He crosses to the counter, busying himself with setting up the coffee maker. “Cecily’s disappearance fits the profile of the other abductions. All the girls were taken on their way to school. All had text messages sent from their cell phones to family and friends giving the kidnappers hours to spirit them away before anyone realized they were missing.”

He’s not looking at me while he speaks. When the coffee maker starts to perk, he reaches up to pull mugs from a cabinet. One of the mugs slips from his grasp. I catch it before it hits the floor.

Thank you, vampire reflexes.

But Dad is so upset, he doesn’t even comment on the fact that I just performed a superhuman feat. Calmly, I take the mugs from him. “We’ll keep Trish safe,” I say gently.

He finally meets my eyes. “I keep thinking it could have been Trish today.”

I lead him to the table and gently guide him into a chair. I know that’s not all he’s thinking. It’s only been three weeks since Mom died. I blow out a breath and ask, “Did they happen to say how they think Cecily was targeted?” I take the chair beside him.

He nods. “Yes. In fact, they thought the fact that she was on television last night got the kidnapper’s attention. The reporters not only told them what school she went to, but that she’d be arriving late today. It was a perfect setup.”

The coffee maker chimes. I pour two cups and bring them back to the table. “I have a friend coming tomorrow morning,” I tell Dad. “He came to our wedding so you might remember him. His name is Vlad and he has a lot of connections that could be useful. He’s going to help us find Cecily.”