by Mel Odom
“But I didn’t.”
Angel shook his head. “You couldn’t know that.”
“There are things in this world and in others that a mortal and even immortal mind cannot know,” the man responded.
Angel saw the conviction in the madman’s gaze. He believes what he’s saying.
“You know what I’m telling you is true,” the man said. “Just as I tell you that I believed no one would be killed last night, I’m also telling you that none of my brothers would kill that guard. Look elsewhere for your answer to that riddle. Look elsewhere and I promise you’ll find the trail that had been laid.”
“What will it take to make them leave Whitney alone?”
“They cannot break from their task. We have searched for her before, but she has been clever.”
“If she was so clever, how did she get caught now?”
“There is a spark of good that yet lingers in her. She doesn’t know what she is.”
“What is she?” Angel demanded.
All the fight left the man as the trustee finally got the cell door open. He charged across the room and grabbed the prisoner’s other arm, slamming his face against the cell bars.
“She’s your death come walking,” the man promised hoarsely, trying to hold Angel’s gaze even as the trustee slapped a pair of cuffs on him, locking his hands behind his back. “You can’t trust her.”
The conviction in the man’s words rested uneasily in Angel’s mind. One of the arriving deputies grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the open cell door.
“Out!” the deputy commanded.
Kate took Angel’s arm and pulled him from the cell. Angel watched as the deputies bound the prisoner’s legs with cuffs as well.
“We’re going to have to get a doctor in here to check on him,” the trustee said. The man was clearly not happy. He scanned Angel. “Are you okay? He looked like he busted you up pretty good.”
“I’m fine,” Angel replied.
“Then I suggest you get the hell out of here,” the trustee said. “You’ve done enough here.”
“C’mon,” Kate said, pulling Angel away. “We’ve got to talk.”
Angel walked at her side as they headed back to the checkpoint, wondering what he was going to tell the detective.
Doyle looked at the old woman across the napkin with the symbol on it. “What is it?”
“It is a thing that belongs to a group who once belonged to the Catholics before finding their own beliefs. They called themselves the Blood Cadre.” Mama Ntombi sucked on her pipe again as she pushed the napkin back across the table. “Have you heard of the Jesuit order?”
Doyle nodded. “Kind of a warrior for God. Rode out and smote down unbelievers, did conversions whether the guy they were talking to wanted to be converted or not. Built schools, swore vows of poverty but made sure plenty of gold made its way into the coffers of the Church. Started by Saint Ignatius Loyola.”
“Yes. Them men and women of the Jesuits, they were very strong in their beliefs, very unforgiving in their defense of them. They are hard, driven hunters who deliver the wrath of their god more than tender mercies. The Blood Cadre was another group of them, a splinter group that completely separated from the parent organization. They chose to stand against the undead and demons, and they worked in the shadows between good and evil. Evil things fought them, hunted them when they thought they could take them. And even the original Jesuits shunned them because they were so violent. You don’t be careful in this world, boy, you end up becoming like them what you hunt.”
Doyle pulled at his T-shirt collar with a fore-finger. “Took things kind of personally, did they?”
“Those creatures who lived by night and those who chose to walk in darkness learned to fear the Blood Cadre.”
“They’re still around?”
“The paper you have in your hand says this is so. I know they still walked the lands in secrecy a hundred years ago when I was a little girl.”
“Where did you see them?”
“In Berlin. It was in the eighteen nineties. I was a young girl and had not even seen my sixteenth birthday.”
Doyle did the math on that one, realizing that Mama Ntombi claimed to be nearly one hundred and twenty years old. That’s old for a human, he thought, but that’s only half Angel’s age. He pushed that out of his mind.
“I was there with my poppa,” the old woman said. “He took him a trip to Germany to see about some business. And it was there in Germany that I met this man, this warrior of the Blood Cadre.” She smiled at the memory. “Ah, and he was a fine warrior, too. Tall and strong, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Just looking at him made my heart beat faster. I was so young and so inexperienced, I fell in love with him. He came, pretending to be a man on business. Two nights later I saw him kill one of them German men we were staying with who was a werewolf.”
“How do you know he was a member of the Blood Cadre?” Doyle asked.
“Killing that werewolf wasn’t no easy thing,” the old woman answered. “Killing any shapeshifter requires skill and daring and luck. The warrior had most of those things, but he was hurt. He left him a blood trail behind and I followed it. I found him the next day in a cave in the forest, him burning up from a fever and out of his head. I used my knowledge of herbs and such to fix a poultice and give him something to bring the fever down.”
“He told you he was part of the Blood Cadre?”
“No, boy, but he had him a fierce fever. The kind that drives men to talking and to living in their fears and their past while they suffer through it. He talked a lot during his fever periods because they came and went. Even with everything I did and him being a strong man like he was, I thought for a while I was going to lose him.”
Doyle listened, mesmerized by the story, wondering how it was going to tie into what he was looking for.
“Couldn’t seem to shut him up some days and just knew him raving was going to alert some of them Germans. It was one of them times that he told me he was a member of the Blood Cadre. And I saw the silver ring he wore. That ring had this symbol on it, and he said it was how other warriors knew each other, that sometimes they were even kept secret from each other so those who journey from their keeps would be more safe.”
Doyle glanced back at the napkin drawing, finding it even more intriguing now.
“You’ve seen the ring before, boy.” Mama Ntombi stared straight at him.
“I think I’d remember seeing it if I did.”
The old woman held her hand out. “Let me show you.”
Reluctantly, dreading the coming experience, Doyle put his hand in hers, then felt her power take hold of him. Immediately the memory stirred in his mind, bringing up the image of the woman warrior standing on a ship’s deck.
And there in the moonlight, a silver band gleamed on the woman warrior’s hand. This time the vision was clear enough that Doyle could see that the ring bore the symbol.
“Did any of what that man said to you make any sense?”
Angel looked at Kate Lockley. “No.” And he felt a little better because most of that answer was true.
They stood in the visitors’ waiting room. Chairs and vending machines lined the walls. A handful of people sat in the chairs, and none of them looked happy. A young mother with two small children clinging quietly to her knees looked as if she’d been crying.
“Why did he talk to you?” she asked. “He’s not even talked to anyone else here.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m actually working for Whitney, trying to protect her.”
“How does he know that? He was picked up before you took on the case.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there something I’m missing?”
“Kate,” Angel said gently, “you brought me into this, remember? I had no idea these people even existed until they showed up in my office.”
“Maybe that was a mistake.”
Angel shrugged. “I
think Schend told me you advised him that I had a way with offbeat cases.”
“Yes. But this one has taken a different spin. I have to wonder if that was because you are now involved.”
“The security guard was killed in Whitney’s apartment while Schend hired me.” Angel glanced at the two children clinging to the young mother’s knees. The sadness in their eyes touched him deeply. There were some things that couldn’t be avoided no matter what. He had that feeling of premonition now.
“This thing with Whitney Tyler is going to be a train wreck,” Kate said softly.
“Maybe.”
“You could step away from it.”
“Sure.”
“But you’re not going to.”
Angel met Kate’s gaze. “No.” He couldn’t explain to her that walking away wasn’t an option. He’d relocated to L.A. to get a chance to start over, to do something with his life.
He’d gone out into the morning months ago, expecting the sun to rise and burn him down, willing to let go of the unlife that remained to him because he just couldn’t believe in anything else again. Then an unexpected snowstorm in Sunnydale had obscured and delayed the dawn, letting him see that something else lay ahead of him. For a time afterward he hadn’t known what that path was, but he had found it, and now he was sure of it.
“Then there are a few things you should know,” Kate told him. “Gunnar Schend may not be as protective of Whitney Tyler as he appears to be. The guy’s heavy into gambling, but he’s locked into the high rollers. Vice took down a bookie operation in Beverly Hills last week and found Schend’s name on the computer files.”
“Schend’s in deep?”
“They don’t keep the winners on those lists, Angel.”
“How deep?”
“Over a million dollars.”
Angel considered the information. “They gave him that kind of credit?”
Kate shrugged. “He’s the producer of a hit television series at a time when those are about as rare as dinosaurs.”
“Can he come up with the money?”
“Not and live his life in the style to which he’s become accustomed. There are people who are looking for him, and he’s managed to buy himself a little time, but not much. And he’s the type to be convinced that he can break even on the next roll of dice.”
Angel thought briefly of the television producer. Schend was the kind to live off the excitement of winning and losing, a natural born gambler who craved the adrenaline.
“After the first attacks on Whitney,” Kate went on, “the detectives in the sheriff’s office poked around and discovered that Schend had an insurance policy on Whitney Tyler for a couple million dollars.”
“Is that unusual?” Angel asked.
“Not really. Actors and actresses are insurance-poor sometimes. Some studios pay for the policies. But Schend has a life insurance policy on Whitney.”
“When did he take it out?”
“About halfway through the season.”
“When did the heavy gambling start?”
“About halfway through the season. You can do the math on this one.”
“Still might not mean anything.”
“True, but I thought you’d want to know you might need to guard your back.”
“I appreciate that.” Angel shifted, suddenly anxious to get back to Whitney. Instead of alleviating some of the mystery about the attacks on the woman, the visit to the jail had only twisted it more deeply.
“Did you drive out?” Kate asked.
Angel shook his head.
“Do you have a way back into the city?”
“I planned on calling a cab.” Angel knew from the clock on the wall and the darkness outside that dusk had come.
“I can save you cab fare if you’re interested,” Kate offered.
“You see, I was telling you the truth about them rings.”
Doyle felt the vision ebbing from his grasp, trying desperately to hang on to it and squeeze some sort of understanding from it. Why does that woman look so much like Whitney Tyler? He had no clue.
“That vision is one from a long time ago,” he told Mama Ntombi, finally certain of that. It wasn’t Whitney in some kind of period piece. “What does that have to do with now?”
The old woman sucked on her pipe and spewed another cloud of smoke into the air. “I can see the vision as clearly as you, boy, but I can’t be reading too much into it. But I know the answer is there.”
“What?”
“A great evil, boy. A great evil done and a great evil coming. You know yourself that true evil can’t be avoided. Sure, a man or a woman, they can delay it for a time, spend their lives running. But they ain’t no place far enough away they can run to and make evil go away. For evil to make its peace, it’s got to be faced up to, and a blood price paid. And that man you be friends with has got it to do.”
Doyle felt like a small child again, caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t have been doing. “Why Angel?”
“Any man who has known evil up close and personal,” Mama Ntombi said, “stood up and welcomed evil into his home and his heart, he’s a man ain’t never going to know a day without thinking about evil. Evil’s like an old ghost what can’t be chased away even by the most powerful magics. I seen some in my time.” She cackled with glee. “Hell, I probably be one I ever decide to give up the flesh. Got people I know I’d like to go to they house and rattle chains all night.”
Doyle’s skin crawled because he knew she was speaking the truth. He had his own evils he had yet to face before he could make any kind of peace with himself. That was one of the reasons he’d been brought to Angel.
“You friend in that vision,” Mama Ntombi went on, “he close to that evil in some way. Some old debt come back to haunt him.”
“He’s changed,” Doyle said desperately.
“Maybe he be okay then,” the old woman suggested. “If he’s got enough strength to do what he needs to do, maybe he’ll be all right. But I know this walk going to be long and hard.”
Doyle took the money from his pocket, letting the old woman see it. “You said sometimes you could see the future.”
“Yes, the gods willing.”
“How much would you charge me to tell me about the future of this?” Even if it ran him short on the money he owed Yuan, Doyle wasn’t going to let Angel walk into danger if there was a way to see his friend clear.
“Put your money away, boy,” Mama Ntombi snapped. “I done told you everything I could. Maybe more than I should. I don’t sit back here in this little room to fleece tourists.” She smiled. “Well, at least not all the time. Got to make my rent somehow. But you walk in some of the same circles where I go, so I tell it to you like it is.”
Doyle put the money away.
“Listen to Mama Ntombi, boy. You and your friend, you learn all you can about this evil. Knowing an evil, recognizing it, admitting it’s there, that takes away some of that evil’s strength. Don’t make it go away, don’t keep it from carving your skull clean some night and drinking down your soul, but maybe it levels the battlefield a little.”
Mind spinning with all the implications in her words and the knowledge she’d give him, Doyle stood. He put an extra fifty dollars on the table without a word.
“There is something else you should do, boy.”
Doyle looked at the old woman.
“You owe a man a debt.”
Caught off guard, Doyle smiled wryly. “You get your dry-cleaning done at Yuan’s or something?”
Mama Ntombi grinned, flashing pink gums. “I picked that up out of your thoughts, but it’s not my business. What I do know, though, is that if you go make arrangements about this debt, your path will cross that of another, someone who will help you have a clearer understanding of what it is you face.”
“What?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
Doyle considered that quickly. “Did you happen to see anything about toes?” he asked as n
onchalantly as he could. “Because I’ve gotten kind of used to being able to fill out a sock, you know.”
“I say a prayer for you tonight, boy. And one for your friend.”
Angel rode the elevator down to the sheriff’s office parking area with Kate. It took him a moment to realize she was talking to him.
Kate gave him a half-smile. “You’re obviously not on this planet, so either John Doe shorted your brain more than you’re admitting or you’re obsessing on something.”
“Just trying to make sense of why these people would be after Whitney.”
“It’s this town,” Kate said. “Glamour. Glitz. And the eternal race for stardom. It’s enough to make most people crazy.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m in law enforcement. That’s enough to make people wonder. And you don’t know me well enough to make that judgment.”
In spite of the situation, Angel smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”
“So what are you thinking? We’re not talking about a group of loosely connected attacks any-more. And the security guard’s death makes it a homicide now. The detectives working that case are going to want to talk to Whitney more closely now.”
“Makes sense.”
“By staying with Whitney and not knowing who these people are, you’re also a target.”
“I know.”
“What I’m getting at is that you don’t know your client. The homicide team is going to dig into her background, and they’re going to look more closely than any media team ever has.”
“And what do you expect them to find?” Angel asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m thinking there’s something. Guys like that nutcase in that cell upstairs don’t just crawl out of the woodwork for no reason.”
Angel was quiet a moment as they walked across the parking area. He heard an engine start up, the gentle roar contained in the building, but he ignored it. “She’s an innocent, Kate.” Even if he wasn’t sure exactly what Whitney was, he was convinced of that. At least, partially innocent. Images of the warrior woman he’d fought all those years ago in Galway danced in his head. She’d been an innocent, too.
“What makes you so sure?”
Angel looked at her. “I know innocence when I see it. I’ve seen plenty that wasn’t.”
