Read Online Haunted by Jeanne C. Stein - Free Book Online Page A

want me to do? If Culebra is suffering a crisis of conscience, good. He should be.
    And killing doesn’t bother you? The annoying voice in the back of my head chirps up once again. How many people are dead because of you? How many supernatural creatures, your own kind, have you eliminated? How many humans? You had reasons. But you killed nonetheless. So exactly how different are you from Culebra?
    It’s not the same thing. It wasn’t indiscriminate. It was never indiscriminate.
    Was it?
    You worked for Warren Williams and his Watcher organization once. He used you like a loaded gun, pointed you at the target and pulled the trigger. Wasn’t that indiscriminate?
    Am I really arguing with myself?
    I thrust away the covers and get out of bed. May as well. I doubt I’ll be getting any sleep. I’m sore and sticky and pissed. I head to the shower and crank on the hot water. When the room is filled with steam, I step under the spray and let the heat scald my skin red. I soap up and scrub. Still, thoughts keep spinning themselves around inside my brain like a dog chasing its tail.
    Why do things have to change? A few days before Christmas, I was simply looking forward to Stephen coming home. Since then I’ve had a confrontation with Culebra, found out my parents are selling their house, been presented with an out-of-the-blue proposal from Frey and blindsided with Stephen’s announcement that he wanted me to move with him to the other side of the fucking country.
    And even before all that happened, I wasn’t happy. I felt sorry for myself because I was alone on Christmas Eve. My family’s visit was nice, but over too soon.
    Shit.
    Max is right. I am a bitch.
    * * *
    I DON’T KNOW WHEN THE THOUGHT TO GO SEE CULEBRA wiggles its way into my consciousness. One moment I’m being self-righteous and indignant and the next I’m in the car headed south.
    Why? Couldn’t put it into words. Maybe Max has a point. Eighteen months of friendship deserves more than a brush-off.
    I left a message for Stephen after ringing his cell phone and having it go straight to voice mail. He may have turned it off while visiting with his sister. No matter. I’ll be back at the cottage before him, I’m sure.
    Lines at the border are long. Security is heightened during the holidays. And the increasing drug violence along the Texas and Arizona borders is spilling over to tighter security along ours.
    Hear that, Culebra?
    When it’s my turn, I flash my passport and get waved through.
    I’m about fifteen minutes outside Beso de la Muerte when I see a man. A lone figure a quarter of a mile from the road, weaving around cactus, stumbling over rocks and brush. I pull over, wondering if he’s an illegal. Or a victim of one of the unscrupulous coyotes working the area. In either case, he’s lost his bearings. He’s not heading toward the border, he’s moving parallel to it. And this is the middle of the day. Even if he makes the border, he’ll run right smack into a patrol.
    I climb out of the car at the same instant he takes a header into a ravine. When I don’t see him get right back up, I’m racing over the desert toward him.
    I reach him just as he attempts to sit up. He’s holding his head in both hands, a jagged gash at his hairline spilling blood into his eyes. The scent of his blood gives me pause. It’s full of fear. The raw smell of panic increases when he spies me. He jumps to his feet, backing away, spewing Spanish too fast for me to understand.
    I hold up my hands, try to remember how to say something reassuring in a language in which I haven’t had much practice.
    “Estás lastimado. Puedo ayudarle.”
    He doesn’t look reassured. Maybe I got it wrong. I try English this time. I point to his wound. “You are hurt. I can help.”
    He looks at the blood on his hands as if seeing it for the first time. “You are not policia ?”
    His English is halting but good.
    “No. Where were you going?”
    He sinks down on the edge of the