Soulmates

by Nadine Nightingale

  Bonnie giggles. “Deal.” Then her eyes darken. “I still want to desperate-housewife your ex, though.”

  I squint. “You want to shoot him and stage it as a suicide on Wisteria Lane?”

  Bonnie elbows me. “No, Amanda.” She wiggles her brows in typical B-style. “I want to drown his sorry ass in bleach.” A devilish smile crosses her lips. “From what I’ve heard, it works miracles on mold.”

  I laugh so hard tears blur my eyes. “God,” I croak, wiping my damp cheeks. “I love you, B.”

  “Who doesn’t?” she replies, hands landing on my shoulders. “Come on, we gotta get ready. I won’t hit a strip club looking like this.”

  I eyeball her. There’s nothing wrong with the way she looks. Ask Jesse, he’d agree in a heartbeat. But while she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, she certainly has two-hundred-and-six vain ones.

  ****

  I don’t know what I expected to find behind the doors of Rick’s Cabaret. Presumably something along the lines of Zombie Strippers—without the zombies. What I see is something entirely else. The place is old-school, porn Hollywood. Dim lights, black walls, red leather chairs, and at least a dozen waitresses in bikini-tops. Dudes of various ages roam around, drinks in one hand, notes for the dancers in the other. Who needs seventy-two virgins in paradise if there’s Rick’s Cabaret?

  Jesse’s eyes burn brighter than the sun. He’s fixated on a sleazy, sexy, blonde stripper snake-dancing to raunchy music. “Honey, I’m home.”

  I catch Bonnie frowning and nudge the little player in the ribs. “Behave,” I warn as we walk up to the blue-lit bar.

  “He doesn’t even know how to spell that,” Alex says, groaning.

  Jesse gives us a smug smile. “Who won that spelling competition in grade school again?”

  Alex casts me a sidelong glance and sighs. “The word the teacher gave him was naughty.”

  “It’s all about having your priorities straight,” Jesse says, his chocolate eyes connecting with Bonnie’s. “Right?”

  What happens next sends Alex and me into a state of complete shock. In the blink of an eye, Bonnie leans against Jesse. Her too short, too tight red lace dress presses against his chest. “Priorities, huh?” Her lips are seconds from sealing the deal, and Little Remington is frozen. Doesn’t move or breathe.

  Bonnie smooths her thumb over Jesse’s jawline and bites on her lower lip. “A well-formed butt pressed against your crotch, hands diving into your hair, lips exploring your delicious body—that on the top of your list?”

  Little Remington swallows hard but manages to nod.

  Just when I think she’s about to attack him, Queen B steps back and laughs. “Men.” A hint of disappointment roughens her voice. “Show them a couple of boobs, and they’ll only think with their cock.” She waves her hair over her shoulder and saunters to the redheaded bartender. If this isn’t the definition of giving someone a cold shoulder, then what is?

  Alex stares at his brother.

  “Not a word,” Jesse murmurs and walks away.

  Alex blows out a long breath. “Should I be worried?” he asks, watching his brother mingle with the crowd.

  I am.

  “Manda?”

  “Hm?”

  “You gonna answer my question?”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go find Melissa.” That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it’s better than the truth.

  He searches the crowd, but not for Melissa. “I’ll catch up with you,” he says when he spots Jesse chatting with the sexy blonde stripper who just got off stage.

  I look for Bonnie, hoping she’s more focused on the mission, but I can’t find her. Annoyed with all of them, I turn to the door. “I’ll check upstairs.”

  “Sure,” he murmurs, body there, mind long gone.

  I go up a level. A set of black velvet ropes appear. Intoxicating music thrums through the club, the sort you can’t stop moving to. My right hand grows heavy. The ankh on my skin stings like a vicious cobra bite. Something’s off. I can taste it on the tip of my tongue—a wicked bitter flavor.

  I force my feet to move. Seedy red light brushes plush black armchairs. Shadows move through the gloomy room. I blink several times until my eyes adjust to the darkness. Slowly, the silhouettes take on the form of men. Old, young, bald, sexy—their looks couldn’t be more different, their charisma not more alike.

  I smooth the silver cami dress I borrowed from Bonnie and move closer to the hexagram-shaped stage in the center of the space. Heads turn in my direction. Several guys stop dead in their tracks and glare at me openly, completely unashamed. They must mistake me for a dancer, I tell myself, ignoring the hungry gazes.

  A few middle-aged dudes at a table in front of the stage look over their shoulders. Their manners are a cross between I-want-to-Ted-Bundy-her and can-I-get-a-private-lap-dance. Creepy.

  I keep my gaze trained on the stage, hoping—no, praying—Melissa shows. She doesn’t. Neither does any other dancer. In my peripheral vision, I see someone approaching. I walk in the opposite direction, straight to the red-lit bar.

  Leaning against the counter, I observe the weird crowd. Something’s fishy. My alarm bells ring louder than Big Ben. Why are you still here? Move your ass back downstairs. I should listen to the voice in my head, but somehow I’m drawn to the sinister atmosphere, seduced by the smell of sin and danger. God, what’s the matter with me?

  A group of young, rich douchebags gathers next to me. They’re barely older than I am, but stand there like they own the world. I hate guys like them. They look heavenly, but reek of asshole.

  I try to be oblivious of them, but the way the one with the black mamba tattoo on his neck eyeballs me—as if I’m some kind of happy meal—makes my skin crawl. He’s drooling all over his expensive suit.

  He strolls over with a confidence that’s both scary and impressive. I look the other way, hoping he’ll get the hint. He doesn’t. “How much for a private dance?” His hoarse voice gives me chills.

  I don’t mind being mistaken for a stripper, but the way his lips curve into a sinister grin tells me he knows I’m not one. One side of my mouth shoots up. “You couldn’t afford me,” I assure him.

  He looks me over. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

  I hated him before he called me sweetheart. Now I pretty much despise his existence. “Damn sure,” I say, meeting his midnight eyes.

  He shifts closer. The scent of musky aftershave lingers between us. “Would you bet your soul on it?”

  I cock a brow. “Why don’t you try your cheap pickup lines on someone who falls for your Cry-Baby Walker act?” A deaf man could hear the villainy in my voice. Unlike some females, I don’t dig guys who act like they’re the next big bad in town. In fact, I find them as repulsive as the knight-in-shining-armor brigade.

  His smile slips away. “Big mouth for such a small witch.”

  I snap my head up. “What did you say?”

  His lips come dangerously close to my ear. “I said…big mouth for such a small girl.”

  Time to get the hell outta here. I spin on my heels, ready to make a run for the velvet curtains. The asshole grabs me by the wrist and pulls me back. “Are you crazy?” I bark, trying to break free.

  He shoves me against the bar. My tailbone knocks against the wood, sending a dull pain up my spine. “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”

  Okay, I’ve had it. I ball my free hand into a stone-hard fist, ready to punch the freak in the face. Shame I never get to strike, because good old hunter-heroic shows.

  “You have two seconds to let go of her before I wipe the counter with your face.” Alex’s voice is deadlier than the mamba on the dude’s neck.

  Mamba-Guy’s attention goes to Alex. “Boyfriend?”

  Alex flexes his muscles. “I won’t say it again.”

  Amusement flickers in Mamba-Guy’s eyes. “Wannabe boyfriend then.”

  Alex steps closer. “One.”

  It’
s the fist-fight countdown.

  Mamba-Guy tightens his grip on me. “We’re not done,” he threatens and pushes me into Alex’s rock-hard chest. “Here, bro. You can have the ho.”

  Alex’s body is rigid. “What did you call her?”

  I’ve had enough testosterone for the night. I reach for Alex’s hand. “Come on.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Now, Alex.”

  Still frozen.

  I sigh heavily and haul his stubborn butt out.

  Once we’re behind the curtain, he stops dead in his tracks. “What the hell were you doing up here with that guy?” There’s murder on his face, ice in his voice.

  “I was looking for Melissa, jerk-face.”

  He arches a brow. “And you mistook her for a snobby guy with a bad tattoo?”

  Is he on crack or something? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He squints. “With me? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re gone for less than ten minutes, and look what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “I had it under control,” I snap. “You’re the one who came barging in to feed your fuckin’ hero complex.”

  A slow-burning fire spreads in his eyes. “Next time, I’ll stand back and watch you drag yourself out of your own shit.”

  “Good,” I bark. “’Cause I don’t need a hero.”

  “Fine.” He crosses his arms. “From now on you can clean up your own messes.”

  “Perfect,” I shout in his face.

  “Great,” he yells.

  “Awe—”

  “Um, guys?” Bonnie cuts me off.

  “What?” Alex and I holler at the same time.

  She stands on the stairs and looks bewildered. “W-we have a problem.”

  Chapter 22

  The alarming feeling I had on the second level follows me downstairs, and I don’t like it. What bugs me even more is the unsettling look on Bonnie’s face as she leads us through the packed club, past red leather chairs and less creepy but equally horny dudes, to a private area sectioned of by sangria-colored ropes.

  The blonde stripper—yep, the one Jesse was hellbent on getting to know better—sits on a plush couch next to Little Remington.

  “Dude,” Alex groans. “Don’t tell me you—”

  “Alex,” Jesse cuts him off. “This”—he points to the long-legged dancer with the Victoria’s Secret body—“is Esmeralda.”

  “Hi,” Alex says, waving lazily.

  “She’s a friend of Melissa’s,” Jesse explains. “You should sit down and hear what she has to say, bro.”

  “I’m good standing.”

  Bonnie walks toward him. “No, Alex.” She hauls him to a chair across from his brother. “You should really sit.” The softness in her eyes and voice is surprising, considering she wanted to desperate-housewife him not long ago.

  Alex, still electrified from our little dispute, blows out a long breath. “All right.” He flings himself onto the chair. “I’m listening.”

  Jesse nudges Esmeralda’s bare leg. “Tell them what you told us.”

  Us? I’m pretty sure this is a private lap dance room. So what were the three of them doing here? Scratch the question. Some things are better left unanswered.

  Esmeralda shifts to the edge of the couch and shoves her hands between her thighs. “Your brother said you’re friends with Melissa?”

  Alex nods. “Yeah. She ain’t working today?”

  I might have lost the ability to read auras, but I’m still absorbing emotions like a vacuum cleaner, and the sadness in Esmeralda’s eyes takes my breath away. Her gaze drops to her white knee-high go-go boots. “She’s not,” she says, voice trembling.

  Alex squints. “Is it her day off?”

  Esmeralda shakes her head.

  Hunter-heroic’s shoulders tense. “Did she quit?”

  Tears well up in Esmeralda’s eyes. A sharp pain slices through my chest. Oh no, this is—

  “She’s missing,” Esmeralda whispers, eyes hooded.

  Bad.

  Alex jumps up, and I half expect him to aim his fist at the drywall. “Say that again?”

  Esmeralda wipes her wet cheeks. “Two weeks ago, Melissa left work but never came home. Her mom freaked out, filed a missing person report.” She rubs her palms on her nurse slash slut costume. “Cops didn’t do much. Guess she’s just another stripper casualty to them.”

  Ever seen a lion before it attacks? The terrifying look in its eyes before it jumps its victim? The blood-curling roar it lets out? Well, that’s pretty much Alex right now. A predator looking for a kill.

  “Alex.” Jesse casts his brother a worried look. “I’m sorry, but there’s more.” He pats Esmeralda’s shoulder. “Tell him.”

  Panic creeps into her pretty face. “If Barry finds out, he’ll—”

  “He won’t,” Bonnie says. “I give you my word.” She always keeps her promises. It’s why she’s the only person I’ve ever trusted.

  Esmeralda’s leg trembles. She scans the room. When she’s certain it’s just us, she says, “Melissa isn’t the only girl who’s vanished. In the last couple of weeks, three of our dancers have disappeared.”

  I lean against the wall, tired of more shit being thrown our way. Shouldn’t the freaking universe grant us a minute to catch our breath? Like in books when the characters get a chapter or two to reflect on what has happened to them? I press my foot against the wall and cross my arms. “Define disappeared.”

  She lifts her gaze. It’s the first time I get a good look at her face. I can’t help but wonder if she’s even legal, that’s how young and vulnerable she looks. “The first two girls were new,” she says. “Didn’t think much of it when they didn’t show for work. Figured they found better jobs. A better life. But Melissa wasn’t like the others. She needs this job and…” She struggles with her voice. “She’d never quit without telling me.”

  A sick feeling savages my stomach. I still refuse to jump to horrific conclusions. “Maybe she took a time-out?”

  Alex glares at me. “She didn’t.”

  Esmeralda looks at the lighted wall clock “Shit,” she murmurs. “I’ve got five minutes to haul my butt on stage.” She heads to the curtains. “You going to hang around for a while?”

  “We’ll be right here,” Alex promises.

  A grateful smile tugs at her lips. “Great. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  The second Esmeralda is gone, Alex faces Jesse. “You and I, we both know what’s happening here.”

  An odd tension creeps over Little Remington’s face. “He’s back.”

  Bonnie squints. “Who’s back?”

  The lines around Jesse’s chocolate eyes deepen. “We never told you how Alex met Melissa, huh?”

  Frankly, I don’t wanna know.

  Alex scrubs his fingers through his hair and plummets down on the chair. “A year ago, around Halloween, Carter asked us to investigate a case in New Orleans.” His voice cracks. I get the feeling his heart is too. “Multiple prostitutes and strippers had gone missing. Their mutilated bodies were later found in the swamps.”

  Bonnie’s eyes pop open. “That’s terrible.”

  Alex’s voice loses the edge. “Yeah. They had cuts all over their bodies and the alligators did quite a job on them.”

  “We surveyed the city’s brothels, strip clubs, and the streets for over a month,” Jesse explains. “That’s how we met Melissa. She approached us when she heard we were FBI.”

  Alex nods. “Yeah. She pointed us toward one of her customers.”

  “The asshole held a knife to her throat when she did a private dance for him,” Jesse grumbles. “Girl barely escaped.”

  “Turned out, Melissa wasn’t the only one he attacked,” Alex says. “Working girls all over the city had heard of him. Didn’t take long to track him down.”

  Bonnie’s natural curiosity is awakened. “Did you arrest him?”

  Both Remingtons stare at the floor. Jesse flushes. “We tried. But—”


  “The guy knocked us out and disappeared,” Alex finishes, voice harder than stone.

  I almost laugh. “Both of you?” I find that hard to believe. These guys aren’t just muscles and brains. They’re trained hunters. Taking them out wouldn’t be easy.

  He gives me the one-more-word-and-I-hang-you-upside-down-on-a-flag-pole look. “He used magic, Amanda. Black magic. We didn’t stand a chance.”

  Bonnie shivers. “Hold on. Are you saying there’s a stripper-ganking, serial-warlock-killer on the loose?”

  Jesse shakes his head. “That’s where we get to the creepiest part of the story. The guy wasn’t a warlock. He was human.”

  “Impossible,” I say. “Humans don’t have that kind of power.”

  Bonnie shoves her hair back. “Amanda is right. I mean, how can you be so sure he wasn’t a warlock?”

  Alex jumps up. “We’re hunters, remember? We can sense witches.”

  Bonnie crosses her arms. “You can, huh? Then how come you didn’t know Amanda was a witch?”

  Alex averts his gaze. “I don’t know.” He must have asked himself the same damn question a million times. Judging by his rigid muscles, he never found an answer.

  “She’s the only witch we weren’t able to sense,” Jesse adds.

  “You’re an untouchable.” Madame Josephine’s voice taunts me. God, I need a break from the mess I call life. But if there is such a thing as an untouchable, the douchebag who killed these girls could be one.

  “Okay,” Bonnie mutters. “Let’s say the dude—whatever he is—is back in town. What now? With the hellish deadline hanging above our heads, we don’t exactly have time to hunt him down.”

  “We’ll call Carter for backup,” Jesse suggests.

  “You are fugitives,” I remind him. “Carter would have to call the cops.”

  “Yeah,” Jesse says. “But he won’t. He knows Alex didn’t kill Francoise.”

  Makes sense. Carter helped us in Bakersfield. Why wouldn’t he help us now?

  “Sounds like a plan. But since we’re already here.” Alex points to the curtain. “We should have a little chat with Barry. See why he wants to keep a lid on the whole thing.”