Keeper of the Night (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Heather Graham

  “How...rude,” she told him. They were face-to-face, so close they were practically touching. His Elven magic seemed to wash over her in a tidal wave of staggering warmth and sensuality, and golden seduction.

  She set her fingers on his chest, straightening the collar of his tailored shirt. “That’s okay—I don’t think I could even begin to describe my first impression of you.”

  He caught her hands. “But it’s changed?” he asked softly.

  “The jury is still out,” she said. It wasn’t, though. Not really. He was dedicated. He was...noble, even, she thought. He was Elven; she was a Keeper. Elven could be anything in life, and he had chosen, like her, to protect and serve.

  There were a million reasons why she should back away. They were embroiled in a horrible situation together, surrounded by death and tragedy, by a threat to everyone and everything they knew, to the entire world of the Others and the city where they all hid in plain sight.

  And yet the worst of it was that she was worried not for her world but for her heart and soul.

  And not a drop of the fear tearing through her could save her.

  Maybe it was everything in her life coming together in this one moment that aroused her need for him in that moment.

  Or maybe it was because he was Elven, and as everyone knew, Elven radiated sensuality...sexuality.

  Or maybe it was just that strangely ineffable something that was an innate part of existence, the unique chemistry that made one person more attractive and seductive than anyone else.

  All she knew was that she’d never imagined wanting anyone the way she wanted Brodie McKay at that moment.

  Alarms went off in her mind, her instinct for self-preservation screaming a warning somewhere deep inside.

  A warning that went unheard.

  She moved closer to him, until her body was pressed against his. She placed her hand on his cheek and marveled at the strongly sculpted line of his jaw as she looked into his eyes, entranced by the blue that seemed to hold the ocean, the sky, the world.

  “Right or wrong,” she said huskily, “I say, let’s do it.”

  He smiled, slowly, sensually, and heat suffused her body. At last she felt his lips on hers, his tongue teasing along her lips and then sliding into the depths of her mouth. Her knees threatened to give out, yet she felt ridiculously strong at the same time.

  When her knees finally did give way, he picked her up. His eyes were fixed on hers as he walked toward the stairs, so focused that he bumped into Mr. Magician as he passed. Mr. Magician moved his gloved hand and dropped a fortune into the receptacle. Brodie balanced Rhiannon against his chest and reached for the card.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  He grinned. “‘Do it.’”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I am not,” he assured her.

  “Then we’ve been blessed,” she said softly. “So let’s do it.”

  Laughing, he carried her up the stairs, then paused at the top.

  “To the right,” she whispered.

  He used his shoulder to push open the bedroom door. The light from the hall drifted in, spotlighting the bed with its red and black cover. He fell to the mattress with her still in his arms, then paused, looking down at her for a long moment before he kissed her again.

  Is this Elven magic? she wondered.

  Or something more?

  No kiss had ever been so deep, so erotic, such an irresistible promise of what was to come. So intimate—and becoming more so with every sweep and thrust of his tongue. When they broke apart, they were both breathless. He struggled out of his jacket; she worked at the buttons of his shirt. Her sweater hit the floor, and their shoes flew in several directions. It seemed to take forever to strip off their clothing, but each second felt precious and seductive. Finally he lay naked beside her, and she saw that his skin was golden everywhere, the heat from his body like liquid gold that rushed through her with the irresistible force of lava. Again they kissed, and then his kiss left her mouth, moving, sweeping golden fire along her skin. She clutched his shoulders, pressed her lips to them. And as he moved against her, she was compelled to move, as well, responding to every slight caress, every breathless touch of his lips.

  His hands were large, his fingers long and his touch exquisite. She felt his caress and then his kiss, followed by the weight of his body as he moved lower. She arched against him until she had enough leverage to flip him over so he was lying beneath her, and then she leaned over him, her hair brushing along his flesh as she kissed her way lower, until he caught her in his arms again and they rolled together, entangled in each other’s limbs. And then he was above her again and finally, finally, inside her. The room itself seemed to shimmer with each golden thrust of his body.

  She was heedless of anything beyond the bed, yet acutely aware of every sensual moment between them: the feel of the satin coverlet beneath them; the vibrancy of the hall light as it streamed across his skin; the very air between them, which seemed visibly charged with electric ions. But most of all she was aware of the way his muscles rippled with his slightest movement, and the way his body seemed to be a part of hers. The rhythm between them grew frantic and strong, accompanied by the beating of their hearts, the rasp of their breath and the sweet, driving, near-desperate sensation growing at her core. She arched, she writhed, she rose to meet his every movement, their passion explosive and golden, rising to a burst of searing fire that broke into a climax as molten as the sun, as the power of their very existence. Finally she lay there feeling the sleek beauty of his damp skin, feeling him, his heartbeat, his breathing, the touch of his flesh hot against her.

  It was the most physically amazing thing she had ever experienced, carnal and erotic. And then he was above her again. He kissed her mouth with the greatest tenderness and reverence, and she realized that as ridiculous as it might sound, as foolish as it might be, she was in love...not lust, but love.

  But whether it was the kind that could defy the world and the ages, the kind her parents had shared, she

  didn’t know.

  She did know that she would fight to hold on to what she had...

  Lest the world take it away.

  He lay at her side, and she curled against him. She worried that she might feel awkward after her climax burned out and the flames of their lovemaking died down to embers, but she felt as if she was right where she should be. And her fascination with every inch of his flesh lingered. Would always linger, she was sure. Somewhere up in the hills a pack of coyotes started to howl, and she even heard the cry of an owl on the wind, the night itself beautiful and wild.

  His hand was resting on her back, holding her gently near, and she winced at the thought that they had met only because people had died.

  “Don’t,” he said softly.

  She lifted her head, seeking his eyes, and realized that he had slipped past her guard and read her mind. For some reason that didn’t even bother her the way it would have just a few days ago.

  “We will find the killer,” he said softly. “And neither of us can change what happened before we came on to the case.” He moved, shifting to look more directly into her eyes. “Everyone, no matter what responsibilities they have to live up to, gets their time to live and their chance to enjoy that time. If we don’t take that, then there’s no sense to any of it.”

  She nodded. “I just... I was just thinking that it seems wrong to be so happy when...”

  “I know. But you can’t let yourself think that way,” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  He kissed her lips again.

  Making love this time was slow. Deliciously slow, almost agonizing. The first time had been filled with desperation, while the second was filled with intimate foreplay and long moments in which desire spilled slowly into ecstasy, until finally the world filled with explosive golden fire again. Finally, when she lay panting in his arms once more, she realized that the world was golden. Morning
had come, and a new day was beginning.

  * * *

  Brodie opted not to go in to the station that day. Rhiannon slept late, but when she finally came down the stairs, he was immediately aware of her, the sweet scent of her like a beacon in the air.

  She walked over carrying an oversize cup of tea and sat on the corner of the desk in the corner of the living room, where he was using her computer.

  “What’ve you been doing?” she asked him.

  He leaned back. “I talked to the kid we met the other night—Nick Cassidy. He’s sending Jordan Bellow’s toothbrush and hairbrush to Tony Brandt, and making arrangements for his dental records to get to the morgue to confirm his ID.” He was quiet for a minute. “I tracked down acquaintances of the other probable victims, looking for items for a DNA comparison, hunted for dental records. I’m checking their banking and credit card information, putting together a history of their last known movements.”

  “Do you still want to check out the lakes and stuff? I can be ready in about ten minutes,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, I have to. We’re still missing one probable victim. I want to see if we can find her.”

  “Did you find any places they all frequented?” she asked.

  “Yes. They all used the same gas station on Vine. Three of the five went to the same donut shop. All five used two places whose names are a bunch of letters and numbers. I was about to call the credit card company to find out what they are.”

  “Let me see,” Rhiannon said.

  He beckoned her closer, so she could see the computer screen. It was a mistake. Her hair fell and brushed his shoulder, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of her.

  To his relief, she straightened suddenly.

  “What?” he demanded, spinning the chair to face her.

  “I know what they are!” she told him. “MC1888—that’s the Magic Café. MC for Magic Café, and 1888—the year Hugh Hammond was born.”

  Brodie was suddenly deeply scared—for Rhiannon.

  “What’s the other one?” he managed to ask, but he already knew.

  “MGHOI stands for Magic, House of Illusion.”

  Brodie turned and started reading through the credit card reports. “Add that to Nick Cassidy...three visits to the Snake Pit. Lila Mill, two visits the Snake Pit. Rose Gillespie, one visit.” He looked over at Rhiannon. “Whoever the killer is, I have a feeling it’s someone we see every day of our lives.”

  He heard a sudden whir.

  Mr. Magician was doing his thing again.

  He walked over to the machine and picked up the little card. He read it, then turned to Rhiannon, stunned. “It says ‘Bingo,’” he told her after a long moment.

  “I’ll get ready. We’ll go and search for the last victim.”

  He nodded glumly. “I’m going to get some patrolmen working on it, too. Even narrowing the search sites down to the general area of the theater, there’s too much water to cover,” he said quietly. He looked up at her, worried. “I shouldn’t do the play tonight. I should go with you to the Snake Pit.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for worrying, Brodie, but we can’t be together if being together means we can’t do our jobs. I’ll be fine at the club. You have to do the show tonight. When you’re done, you can come and find me at the Snake Pit.”

  He sat back down at the computer and began typing hurriedly.

  She stepped up behind him. “What are you writing in such a frenzy?” she asked him.

  “I’m going to give your cousin a story to run in the paper. And then we’ll see who—and what—comes out of the woodwork.”

  * * *

  By four o’clock Rhiannon was exhausted. They’d checked out five bodies of water, two that were on private property and three that bordered various roads.

  “Where now?” she asked Brodie as he slid back into the driver’s seat.

  He drew out his map, pointed north and said, “I have uniforms working up there, so...let’s head over here, along Mulholland. There’s a little man-made lake right in there, off a hairpin curve.”

  A hairpin curve? On Mulholland, that could mean anywhere.

  Rhiannon nodded. “Wherever you want. I’m going to check on Sailor and Barrie,” she said as she pulled out her cell. It didn’t matter where they went. She was just along for the ride.

  Barrie, who was at work, answered right away. “I’m working on an article using everything Brodie gave me. Don’t worry, though. I’ll be careful how I word things so I don’t give away too much but I still draw out the killer.”

  They chatted for another minute or two, and then Rhiannon tried Sailor’s number. It went straight to voice mail.

  “I told her to listen for her phone,” Rhiannon said crossly.

  “It’s Sailor, Rhiannon. You know how she is. She starts reading a script and loses track of the world,” Brodie said.

  Rhiannon left a message, trying to keep her voice level as she told her cousin to call her ASAP.

  A few minutes later Brodie pulled off the road beside an empty lot. She looked at him. “I don’t see any water,” she said.

  “It’s over that little rise.”

  Brodie walked ahead of her, and she followed, not really giving him her attention. She was worried, and she needed to find Sailor. Brodie was right, of course. No matter what she said, Sailor would get involved in something and forget about her phone. In fact, she probably hadn’t even heard it, because she was still at the costume designer’s office. Barrie would be picking her up at the studio, and Barrie was still at work. Sailor was undoubtedly in the midst of a fitting, standing there all pinned together, unable to move.

  In which case she was bound to call back soon.

  They walked up the little hillock and then down. There was a small pond before them, longer than it was broad. It stretched toward several mansions on the right, a couple of which had docks extending into the water, and down toward a private road on the left. She wondered why Brodie had elected to park on the far side of the hill, then realized if he’d come in via the guarded entrance to the community, people would have started talking, and this was the kind of case he would want to keep quiet until he knew what he was dealing with.

  Brodie started walking toward the houses, but she headed directly toward the water, her phone in her hand again. She hated to do it, but she put a call through to Darius. He would know how to reach the costumer, and even if she was being ridiculous, Rhiannon was desperate now to know that Sailor was all right.

  Darius didn’t answer his own phone, of course. Instead she got Mary.

  “Hello, dear,” the older woman said when Rhiannon introduced herself. “He’s with a client, but you just hang on and I’ll go see if I can get him for you.”

  Rhiannon walked along the shoreline, waiting.

  Then she stopped, frozen.

  About fifteen feet out she could see something that definitely didn’t belong there. It looked like a cross between a blob and a mannequin, but she had a terrible feeling she knew exactly what it really was.

  Brodie was quite a distance away at that point, so she waded into the water. It was shallow at first. Then she cursed as the bottom sloped abruptly away and she found herself in water up to her waist. She held her phone over her head and kept walking, seeing as she was already wet.

  She reached for a piece of fabric, hoping to draw it nearer.

  And an arm came free in her grasp.

  She began to scream.

  Chapter 10

  They’d found her, Brodie thought dully.

  The last of the victims. Or the last of the victims they knew about, anyway.

  God help them. They had to stop the killer before he struck again.

  The corpse belonged to a woman, though that wasn’t easy to discern.

  She’d been in the water for several weeks at least. She’d been weighted down with a cinder block—undoubtedly obtained from a pile in the vacant lot—until she grew too bloated with gas for it to hold her. T
he rope was a typical brand, found at any local hardware store. And after so much time, there was no evidence of any other sort left at the crime scene.

  Tony Brandt had come out to the scene to inspect the corpse—the pieces of the corpse, at any rate. Fish had eaten away at the soft tissue, and once it had made its way to the surface, birds had been at it, as well.

  “Fingers are missing again,” Tony Brandt said.

  “How are you doing with identifying the others?” Brodie asked him.

  “Two out of four, and since one was Lila Mill, I’m assuming this is Rose Gillespie. I had her head shots sent over. She was a pretty girl when she was alive,” Tony said. “Did you ever meet her, by any chance?”

  Brodie shook his head. “I wasn’t at the original auditions or the callbacks. I got the part when the original actor took off for home.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. Well, I’ll do my best with what I have. I’m taking her to the morgue now, but...” Tony’s voice trailed off.

  But...

  But the body had been in the water awhile, plus it had rained in the past few weeks, washing away any evidence from the shore—even the damned weather seemed to be against them.

  “Anyway, you know where to find me when you need me,” Tony said.

  Brodie motioned to Adam Lansky, who had come out with the crime scene team.

  Adam wasn’t used to being away from his computer, much less coming face-to-face with a rotting corpse. He looked ill.

  “You all right? You’re green,” Brodie said.

  “I’m okay. Hey, if I’m ever going to get into the field, I’ve gotta learn, right?”

  Brodie nodded. “I’m going to leave you here, because Rhiannon and I have to get ready for work. Just keep an eye on what’s going on, and when they’re done here, so are you. You’ve done good work, Adam.”

  “Thanks,” the younger man said.

  Brodie turned and stared halfway up the rise, where Rhiannon was standing with a police blanket around her shoulders. She was drenched from the lake, but she was calm now. In fact, she had composed herself quickly after discovering the corpse, which was tough. Even a seasoned detective might have screamed at finding himself at the business end of a decomposing arm.