The rent alone is probably triple what I make in a month. Which is why I’m suspicious. I know for a fact people like Odyn Broussard don’t have a steady paycheck. Depending on how full the obituary column is on any given week, it’s usually feast or famine.
All of it together reinforces my initial opinion of the guy. I’m sure he freelances his little hobby on the side while running some kind of touristy voodoo shop on Bourbon Street.
Immediately, I second guess myself for even being here. It goes against everything I believe in. Of course, a few weeks ago, I also believed I was a sane and rational person who didn’t hallucinate dead people.
Things change.
Making my way up to the second floor, I find myself standing outside the door like an idiot. I want to knock. I should knock. I came here to knock. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s like my hand knows once it connects with that wood, more than a door to a stranger’s home will open.
So will a door to a past I don’t care to remember.
My chin drops, and I gaze at my fist curled by my side, my fingers clenched so tightly my knuckles are turning white. I pound it against my leg, the rustle of my black dress pants the only sound in the deserted hallway.
This is a bad idea.
Just as I turn to leave, the door opens, and I’m rooted to my spot. A man stands with one hand on the doorknob and one propped against the molding. I don’t want to look up, but something about him draws me in like a magnet. The instant I glance up, I’m knocked breathless. Steely gray eyes pierce right through me from behind a set of wire-rimmed glasses. Flustered, I drop my gaze to his chin.
Holy shit, it isn’t any safer.
It’s sharp enough to cut glass with just the right amount of tantalizing scruff to make a girl want to run her tongue along the edges, and . . .
I snap my eyes to the wall, feeling my cheeks heat.
Focus, Mila!
I study the brick siding, forcing myself to ignore the looming man crossing all the wrong wires in my head. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not some hormonal teenager. I’m a hard-nosed professional with dead bodies piling up and a job to do.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I’m speechless. I don’t know what I expected to find, but it’s definitely not the casually dressed underwear model staring at me like I just shit all over his peaceful afternoon.
“Mila.” His greeting is flat, but as irritated as he seems, his eyes never leave my face. My stomach flips at the haunting mix of sadness and urgency I see behind them.
“How did you know I was here?”
“You already know the answer to that question, or you wouldn’t have come.”
I avert my eyes, partly at the impatience in his tone, but mostly because he’s right. “Maybe you just have paper-thin walls.”
I never said I’d admit he’s right.
Odyn steps back, gesturing inside with a sweeping arm. “Come inside, Mila. Neither of us have much time to spare.”
I hesitantly step over the threshold, stiffening as I pass by his intimidating frame. I almost expect his arm to settle at my lower back, and when it doesn’t, I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. The place is nothing like I expected from analyzing the exterior. Whereas I expected grandeur and excess, it’s just simply comfortable. Light, airy, cream-colored couches, glass-top tables, and turquoise lamps for an off-set of color.
Like I said, comfortable.
Part of me is annoyed. I expected dark and foreboding, maybe a beaded curtain and an altar with a headless chicken. Fuck, I don’t know. Anything would’ve been better than something so normal.
“Coffee?”
I spin around to find Odyn right behind me. All I can smell is the scent of the woods after a rainstorm, and it’s messing with my focus. “What?”
God, he smells good.
Odyn’s lips twitch. “I asked you if you would like coffee. I just brewed a new pot.”
I scrunch my face. “You know it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, right?”
“A simple ‘no thank you’ would have sufficed.”
Who in the hell does this guy think he is? Do I look like I’m five?
I grit my teeth. “No, thank you.”
Nodding his unsolicited approval, he walks deeper into the apartment. With no other choice, I follow him, stopping at the barstools while he enters the kitchen. He rattles around in a cabinet until he finds a coffee mug and fills it with his back to me. “So, I have to be upfront with you—”
“Actually, I need to be upfront with you, Mr. Broussard,” I interrupt.
“Odyn.”
“What?”
“Please call me Odyn.” Turning around, he motions down his lean muscular body with one hand. “I’m only thirty-eight, hardly the age for such formalities.”
“Fine, Odyn. As I said, I have to be upfront and tell you that I don’t really believe in your profession.”
He pauses, the coffee mug halfway to his lips, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And what is it you think I do, Mila?”
I think you con people. I think you prey on their grief when they’re at their weakest. I think you’ve managed to convince an entire mass of followers their loved ones can chisel their way back from being six feet under and get a second wind.
“Sure, Mila is fine too, Odyn,” I announce smugly. “No formalities here, either.” The laughter dulls from Odyn’s eyes, and I swallow any more snap sarcasm. Sighing, I run a hand through my thick hair and cut to the chase. “You’re a necromancer. You claim to be able to speak to the dead.”
He nods, finally sipping his damn coffee. “You say that with such disdain. Tell me, what happened to make you such a doubter?”
I scoff. “I’m not a doubter; I’m a skeptic. Big difference.”
“No, not really.”
“Are we really going to stand here and argue about semantics? As you already said, neither of us have the time to spare.”
“Fair enough. So, how is it that you found me, Mila? I have to admit I was a little surprised to get your call. I’ve been out of the public eye for many years. Ever since . . .” A cloud passes over Odyn’s face, and for a moment he seems lost. Lines dart across his forehead, and the energy in the room plummets to an icy depth. “Well, it’s been a long time.”
My skin pebbles, a heavy weight pressing on my chest. I can feel his pain. It’s a heavy boulder rolling down a never-ending hill, and he’s constantly trying to push it back up, desperate to keep it from reaching the bottom. I want to ask him about it, but I know without a doubt he’d shut down and kick me out. Whatever it is, it’s not worth giving up what I came here for.
“You were a consultant on the Dauphine murder case five years ago.”
Odyn’s strong hands curl around the mug, the muscles in his neck tightening. “How do you know about that?”
I stare at him in silence. Answering a question with a question will get him nowhere.
He glares at me before dumping the rest of his coffee in the sink, the mug dropping inside with a thud. The hand on my back I wished for is now there, but instead of gently welcoming me inside, it’s now firmly ushering me out. “I don’t think I can help you, after all, Miss Moroz. Perhaps you should leave.”
Oh hell no.
A few steps from the door, I whip around, fire in my eyes. “So, now I’m Miss Moroz, huh? Well, to quote you, Odyn, I’m only twenty-eight, hardly the age for such formalities, especially from a fraud.”
“I’m not a fraud, Detective Moroz, and watch your tone,” he warns. It’s the first flash I’ve seen of something dark inside the great and powerful Odyn Broussard, and I want to poke it with a stick.
A surge of boldness sweeps through me, and I move forward until there’s only a breath between us. “I spent the better part of Friday pouring through cold case files. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you were called in as a consultant on the Dauphine murders.” Tilting my chin, I take in the exaggera
ted bob of his Adam’s apple and flare of his nostrils and push forward. “Four women were found burned to death and left like trash on the side of the street. You claimed to have talked to them. In fact, you’re on record describing the assailant per their description. The deceased women’s description, Odyn.”
“I—” he starts, but I cut him off, nowhere near ready to relinquish the upper hand.
“By the time the police found the man who matched your subject’s profile, he’d already killed himself. From what I read, the chief wanted to close it as a solved case, but the only evidence linking the man to the murders were the testimonies from four dead women.” I purse my lips and shake my head. “Not likely to hold up in court. Well, not without a Ouija board, I suppose.”
Odyn’s labored breathing betrays his air of control. He’s looking down at me as if he’s assessing the most effective way to shut me up. The way his metallic eyes keep staring at my mouth and then darting to my neck, I’m not sure if it’s by kissing or strangling me.
Either one will do the trick.
Instead, he moves around me and opens the front door. “Miss Moroz, are you going to continue mocking me in my own home, or will you be leaving now?”
“I need your help.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “If I’m such a fraud, then why bother?” When I don’t hit back with another smartass comment, he narrows his eyes, his hold on the doorknob slipping. “Something has happened. They’re talking to you now, aren’t they?”
My stomach clenches.
How can he know that? It has to be a trap. He’s a master at reading people.
“The media has dubbed him the Cajun Cremator,” I continue, ignoring his question. “I hate when they sensationalize them by giving them names. It makes them feel more important, like a celebrity or something.” Letting out a sigh, I scrub both hands down my face. I’m tired of fighting. Tired of carrying this burden. Just tired of . . . everything. “He’s burned sixteen people so far. The last one, Hannah, was only seventeen years old. Whether I believe you or not isn’t important. Five years ago, someone believed you enough to go after a suspect on your word alone. Those are facts, and I trust in those.”
Odyn cocks his head to the side, those damn eyes boring into me. “So you only trust in what you can see with your own eyes?”
I nod.
“And what you see with your own eyes are undisputed facts.”
“Yes.”
His shoulders curl over his chest, his rigid posture relaxing as a remorseful expression passes over his face. “I can see the way Hannah looked that day. Such a beautiful young girl, her blonde hair all curled in a ponytail.”
“What?” I yell. “Hannah had straight red hair pulled back on the sides!”
“And how would you know that?” Although the deep timbre of his voice is hypnotizing, I’m knocked out of its haze by the smug upward curl of his lips. “If she was burned beyond recognition, how would you know how she looked the day she died, Miss Moroz?”
Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Because I’m good at my job,” I lie.
A sharp laugh rips from his throat. “Right. Keep telling yourself that, Mila. However, I’m not a puppet and certainly not a homicide contractor. For both our sakes, I advise you to steer clear of this case.”
I blink in confusion. “You want me to let this asshole get away with it?”
“No, I’m asking you to let another detective handle it. Until you’re honest with yourself, I can’t help you.” He opens the door wider, refusing to meet my stare.
If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.
Odyn Broussard is going to be a pain in my ass.
Just as I reach the threshold, I stop and make one last plea. “There’ll be more murders. You’re my last hope.”
Instead of caving, he reaches into his pocket and places something in my palm. It’s a silver medallion hanging from a black cord with what looks like a star in the middle and all kinds of symbols etched in black around the perimeter.
“What’s this?”
Odyn doesn’t answer. Instead, he ushers me outside, closing the door while issuing a final warning. “I’ve fulfilled my promise. I’ve warned you that you’re in danger and to step away from this case. Continue pretending you don’t see what you see, Mila, but it won’t make it go away. Strength comes with acceptance, not with denial.
* * *
Crumpling the parking ticket, I toss it over my shoulder into the backseat and glare across the street at Odyn Broussard’s second-story window. My thumb traces circles over the pattern on the amulet he handed me before tossing me out on my ass. As far as jewelry goes, it’s ugly as shit — big, gaudy, and heavy. I can’t help but think it’s supposed to be some kind of bribe.
Here’s a trinket from my voodoo shop of horrors, Mila. Now run along and play.
It’s probably cursed. I have no doubt if I wear it, I’ll get hit by a bus or contract herpes or something. I should throw it out the window and run over it while flipping him off.
I should.
But I don’t.
Because I’m obviously insane.
That’s the only thing that explains slipping the black rope over my head and swallowing a grunt as the chunk of metal slams against my collarbone.
Fuck it. I’m already seeing dead people. Even Odyn Broussard can’t curse me more than I already am.
Sighing, I start the car and pull onto Chartres Street. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can forget asshole necromancers, lay Hannah to rest, and close this chapter of my life.
As I drive, I find my attention drifting to the pompous jackass with the beautiful hypnotic gray eyes. Beautiful but condescending. He could’ve just told me to go to hell. There was no need to psychoanalyze me. Like I don’t get enough of that from Dr. Crane.
I don’t care how ridiculously attractive he is, demanding I abandon this case was out of line. If he wants to hide out in his fancy apartment like some caffeinated recluse then fine, but I don’t run away from danger. Judging me for doing my damn job just makes him a sanctimonious—
What the hell?
Up ahead, I make out the figure of an older woman standing in the middle of Chartres Street, cars flying around her as she stares me down, as if daring me to hit her.
“Shit!” I slam my foot on the brake and jerk the wheel hard to the right, but it’s not enough. A sickening thud hits the front left edge of the car just before another vehicle crashes into the back of me, spinning me around until the back end slams into a light pole. My body slingshots forward, a bright light blasting across my vision before numbness sets in.
I know the car has stopped, but my brain feels like it’s still sloshing around inside my head. People are screaming and hands are grabbing at me, while voices shout questions I don’t understand.
God, my head hurts.
Slowly, I lift my arm and run the back of my hand across my forehead.
Sticky. Warm. Wet.
Blood.
A man’s hand touches my shoulder. “Miss, are you okay?”
Blood.
Bodies.
Ripping off my seat belt, I tear out of the car, my body protesting and knees buckling as I stumble toward the street. Instead of blood and carnage, I find nothing but clean asphalt. “Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
“The woman! The one I hit. I-is she dead?” I barely choke out the words. “Did I kill her?”
“What woman?” The man’s bald head wrinkles in confusion as he glances at the woman standing beside him. “Maybe she should go to the hospital.”
No, I don’t need a hospital, I need answers.
Rushing around to the front of the car, I expect to see the dent to left side where she landed, but instead I find nothing but perfectly smooth metal.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, collapsing against the hood. “There was a woman standing in the middle of the road. I tried to turn so I wouldn’t hit her but it was too late. Where
did she go?”
The woman who stood quietly next to the man during my rant speaks up, her eyes warm and sympathetic. “Honey, that bump on your head might be a concussion. The only woman out there was you.”
“But—”
She eyes the blood trickling down my temple and shakes her head. “I honestly don’t know how you walked away from it. A crash like that . . .” She pauses, and offers a watery smile. “Luck was on your side today, sweetheart.”
Luck.
Before I can stop it, my hand brushes against the heavy metal still resting against my chest. My breathing stutters, but I don’t have time to mull over what it could mean.
I close my eyes, a sick feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.
“The only woman out there was you.”
No one saw her. She stood in the middle of traffic without a car touching her. She stared right at me.
I clear my throat and turn toward the sympathetic woman. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“Of course.” She hands it over without hesitation.
Dialing the number I know by heart, I wait for Nick to pick up and choke out the words as calmly as I can. “Meet me at the station and have Samantha on call. We’ve got another one.”
Chapter 5
Odyn
Frustrating little minx.
My mind is still on that detective hours later, just as I knew it would be. The moment I laid my eyes on her, I figured I would be in deep shit. I pour through the old Book of Shadows I’ve had since I was a child, trying to find information about them.
I know they’re going to hurt her. She’s the one. Special, beautiful, and so fucking stubborn I want to put her across my goddamn knee. Sighing, I scan the information before me but still can’t find what I’m looking for.
A cold shiver trickles down my spine, warning me of an impending visit. Even with the setting sun streaming through my windows, there’s someone here. I always find it intriguing how the spirits come at any time of the day.
Most people believe they only appear at night, in the shadows and darkness, but they’re always around. I sit quietly, closing my eyes, trying to focus on the energy that’s coming through.
Cursed in Love Page 3
