Rise by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  But they didn’t know his mate. And that would be their downfall.

  That, and being foolish enough to touch what was his.

  “Tomorrow,” he began, voice soft and threaded dangerously with steel, “we go back to work and find out who betrayed our trust. I put Silas on our mysterious Mr. Maitlin from Chicago. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and intercept him and the information he stole.” Genetic information on his wife and unborn child. “And perhaps discover who his accomplice is here in New Orleans.”

  Cee Cee’s jaw turned concrete. “Brady. We both know it.”

  “Yes, we do.” Quietly, determinedly said.

  “Someone put our child in danger, Max. We’ll find out who. And we’ll make them very, very sorry.”

  – – –

  Bram Terriot wasn’t pleased. And when he wasn’t happy, no one was happy . . . or safe within reach of his massive fists.

  He was no longer the wasted, muddled old man his treasonous sons had incarcerated in a Reno hotel prison. He hadn’t withered away, as expected, while Cale assumed his stolen mantle as the clan’s pretended savior.

  They should have known better than to let him live.

  Instead of obliging the traitors with his lingering death, he’d used the time to recover from the debilitating effects of the poisons that bitch Martine had been feeding him. Word of her violent end by her own hand had been disappointing. He’d dreamed of wringing that slender neck she’d slashed herself to escape Cale’s wrath. But dead was dead, and he was glad to be rid of her. Once his mind finally cleared from its fog of madness, he’d begun plotting a fitting revenge, using the never-ending hours of captivity and an infinite tide of rage to pump up muscle and endurance, becoming again a terrifying mountain of brute force to be reckoned with.

  Bram the Beast.

  The sons who’d rescued him were terrified in his presence. Good. They should be. They’d expected reward and position within the world he’d remake upon the ashes of Cale’s ruin. Fools. Where were these sons when the pretender had him imprisoned?

  He paced the confinement of the strange hotel room while his son Stephen struggled to hide his fear. The old king could smell it, stronger now that Lee, his accomplice, weak link that he was, had been compromised and killed in some sleazy Vegas casino. His life wasn’t as big a loss as the funds he’d been funneling.

  After Cale proclaimed himself their king, they’d waited in spineless trepidation until outsiders—one a coward of no consequence and one a human policeman—approached to make that first overture. He’d listened to their plots and ambitions and waited to learn of his place within them. A king reduced to blunt instrument to be wielded at their will. They expected him to be grateful for his freedom, for their token favors, a compliant pawn in schemes for their betterment, not his. He smiled, baring sharp teeth.

  They didn’t know him.

  Their plans weren’t his plans. His began with freedom and now turned to vengeance that would end in his total control.

  Of everything.

  – – –

  “I hear the missus was grateful for your assistance.”

  Max’s smile flashed in the dim light drifting out onto the porch from deep within the house. “Thin walls.”

  Cale’s rough laugh confirmed it. He stood at the top of the steps leading out into the dark yard, a lonely stance, telegraphing his wish to be overlooking mountain pines instead of Louisiana live oaks. He rubbed his thigh, but nothing could ease the pain of all he’d lost. “She’s not going to stop.”

  “Neither are we until every last one of them is driven into the Gulf or to hell.”

  “Good plan. Got an army to make it happen?”

  “Working on it.” Max came to stand beside him, at peace for the first time in a long time despite their uncertain future, and he meant to savor it the way he had the female upstairs until she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep. “We don’t need the numbers if we’ve got the skill.”

  “Yeah,” Cale mused. “But as long as she’s out there, everything we’ve built and love is in danger. She won’t stop until we stop her. Permanently.”

  “But your people are safe.” More question than fact.

  The Terriot king’s shoulders rose and fell. “So far, my father’s keeping a low profile. But that won’t last long. When he steps out of the shadows . . .” His tight jaw worked over that unfinished thought.

  “You’re afraid of him.” Statement not condemnation.

  “Hell yes, I am.” That explosive claim was unexpected. “We all are. That’s why we’re still alive. We knew when to bow. And we know when to fight. He doesn’t. He only knows his way. He won’t compromise for the sake of family or survival. Those things don’t matter to him. Control matters. And he won’t stop until he has it in his fist again.”

  “And you’re in his way.”

  “Oh, yeah. Long as we five stand united, he looks weak. I asked Adam to stay back because of his children. If we fail, the family’ll need a calm voice.”

  Cale fell silent for a long moment, staring out into that shadowed darkness as if it held his fate. Finally, quietly, he added, “It’ll come down to him and me. We’ve always known that. I’ve never had more at stake . . . and I’ve never been weaker.” He started at the weighty press of Max’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t forget all you’ve learned. It’s not just strength, it’s awareness.”

  “Magic.” Cale issued a soft laugh as he recalled the lesson he’d gotten from Max and Nica. How to bend light and warp space. To slow the world around him. Cool, scary shit that had saved his bacon and now would help him save his kind. If he could find that calm, inner strength again and gain control. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

  Max regarded him for a long, uncomfortable moment, reading more into that statement than Cale meant to reveal. “Perhaps what you’ve lost isn’t your strength but your confidence.”

  Silence, then a gruff, “Fuck you, Savoie. What do you know?”

  “Not as much as I thought, apparently.” As Max shrugged and turned toward the house, Cale stopped him with a quiet plea.

  “I need your promise. You pride yourself on your word once given.”

  “I do, yes.”

  Cale didn’t turn, his rigid stance conveying uneasy tension. “Protect them—Kendra and my brothers’ mates. My father’ll come for me and my brothers. He’ll want to wipe every trace of us from our line, so the next generation won’t make us martyrs. He’ll purge all who defied him. No one’ll be spared.

  “So, promise me Kendra and our child will be safe. Warn Silas and Bree. They won’t take me seriously, but they’ll listen to you. Make sure they survive, and that Mia, Sylvia, Ophelia and Amber are out of his reach. If my brothers and I lose this battle, do whatever needs to be done to keep them alive.”

  “It won’t come to that, Cale.”

  He turned, fierce stare locking on Max’s, incendiary in the dim light. “You don’t know him.”

  “I do,” Max argued softly. “I understand monsters. I’ve confronted them almost every day of my life. They can’t be bargained with. They can’t be trusted to keep their word. They have no honor, no empathy, no loyalty. There can be no compromise or sacrifices now. We all win, or we all lose. All of us. I promise I will stand with you and yours to the last of us so all can be free because I refuse to allow evil to win anything else away from me.”

  Cale assessed him and his words. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She’d just finished proofreading her report when the call came down. Time for a trip to Atcliff’s office.

  “Come in and close the door.”

  Cee Cee obeyed her captain’s gruff command, assuming a seat before that broad desk as she’d done so many times before. And got right to it.

  “What the hell happened yesterday, Uncle Byron?”

  Her use of the honorary title undercut his stiff demeanor. “I’m sure a
s hell going to find out.”

  That angry growl softened her approach. Still, she needed to hear his answers. “What happened to the men assigned to back me?”

  “According to their accounts, they were called off to attend what turned out to be a false report.”

  Confirming what Boucher and Hammond had said. Cee Cee sagged back in her chair. “Seems to be a lotta that going around lately. Someone inside our house isn’t playing for the good guys anymore.”

  Atcliff’s strong jaw ground down tight on that statement. “Ideas?”

  “Nothing firm yet.”

  Then he blindsided her. “Maybe it’s time for you to step off the streets. Savoie expressed his concern and I share it, both as your superior and your mentor.”

  Getting benched in the middle of her case? Not very damned likely. Her reply was a tad more diplomatic. “Not yet.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised but I am, considering the reports I’ve reviewed.” His gruff voice softened. “How’s the civilian doing?”

  Blinking fiercely, Cee Cee relayed what she’d learned from Kinesha Jones’s doctors. Atcliff accepted it with a somber nod.

  “And you believe it’s tied into the Pomerelli matter.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then find out how. And why.”

  “On it, sir.”

  Both relieved and juiced, Charlotte returned to the squad room where the sight of Alain Babineau on the phone, leaning back with his feet on the desk next to hers, megawatt smile in play as he worked the conversation, brick-walled her to a stop. Dammit! Why the cords of doubt square knotting in her belly? How could she share a ride and her life beside him without trusting him with two of the things most precious to her—her honor and her unborn?

  Time for answers.

  Distracted by the vibration of her phone, she glanced quickly at the screen. Esterline Coulette. Mother or sister to her witness? Instead of going to her work space, she stepped into the break room.

  “Detective Caissie.”

  “My boy, DeShawn, he say to call you if I no hear from him.”

  The panicked older voice stirred an answering tightness in her gut. “Mrs. Coulette, when was the last you spoke with him?”

  “Two day ago. He ne’er misses a day or a call. Ne’er. I call his job. He not been there, neither. You not know my boy. He good boy. He ne’er give his mammon no worries.”

  Terribly afraid the only news she’d be able to give the fearful mother was bad, Cee Cee took down a list of student friends and professors before promising, “I’ll look into it, Mrs. Coulette, personally.” After disconnecting, she slumped in her chair. This was not the way she wanted to start her day.

  “Dammit!”

  She spent morning through midday on campus, talking to roommates, classmates, and teachers. All liked DeShawn. None offered any help except to confirm the last time they’d seen him was two days prior. That left a visit to his workplace.

  Glo caught her eye and immediately busied herself with customers at the other end of Pour Boys’ bar. Jerky movements telegraphed fear. Cee Cee planted herself on a barstool, ready to outlast her evasion. Finally, wiping down the already gleaming bar top with her rag, Glo swept past her without making eye contact.

  “I ain’t talking to you.”

  Encouraged by that low mutter, Cee Cee pretended to study the precisely aligned top shelf selection. “I’ve got nothing but time. Can you say the same?”

  Under the pretext of preparing a seltzer water for her, Glo whispered, “I don’t know where DeShawn got to. He don’t come in. He don’t call. I ain’t endin’ up like Val. I gots a wife and little girl at home who needs me.”

  “I understand, but that won’t help DeShawn. I thought you were friends.”

  “He like a brother to me.”

  “Is he alive?”

  Gloria’s stare met hers. “I cannot say,” she whispered.

  The bartender was hiding him or helping him stay hidden.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time.” She drew out her card and scribbled her cell number. “If you hear from him, see him, or have any news, call. Anytime, day or night. I’ll let you get back to work.” She took a sip of the seltzer. “How much do I owe you?”

  “You don’t owe me nuthin’.”

  “I can help him. And you.”

  A stony stare dipped to the number and back. Then Glo turned away to hustle down the row of patrons to freshen drinks, laughing easily at poorly executed come-on lines, never glancing back her way.

  Charlotte had what she needed. Now, she’d wait for a call.

  – – –

  Max wasn’t sure who was the more uncomfortable, him at learning the identity of their before-dinner guest or the guest himself.

  He and Stan Schoenbaum had history, one that had started ugly when Max was just a boy. Schoenbaum and two of his rookie pals had come across Jimmy Legere’s young protégé when he was alone and decided to use the kid as a punching bag to vent their anger toward the slippery Mobster. In retaliation, Jimmy made a fatal example of one of them. Schoenbaum, a womanizer, loud-mouth and bully, blamed Max not only for his friend’s death but for all his deficits, vowing revenge. Until his treasured daughter, Kelly was taken by the “Tides That Bind” killer and Max became his only hope of finding her out in the swamps he knew well. By saving her, Max in a way had also rescued the detective from his determined self-destruct.

  Max wasn’t one for collecting on debts, having done his share of that for Jimmy. He’d rescued a frightened child because he’d once been one. If Schoenbaum wanted to feel beholding because of it, that was on him. A return favor wasn’t owed and wouldn’t be demanded.

  Charlotte and Stan had history, too. She’d been upfront about that, as she was with most things, unpleasant or not. She’d said no to the married man’s advances and he hadn’t liked it, making it his purpose in life to make hers difficult. Until she’d convinced her unconventional lover to save Schoenbaum’s daughter’s life. That pivotal moment put the detective in her debt, too. And Max guessed the time to square that one was here.

  Even dressed like a suburban dad who spent his weekends in front of a big screen with a pack of Dixie Beer cheering for the seasonal home team, there was no mistaking the man on the porch for anything but a cop. A cop’s eyes were never still, their hands never far from their sidearm. Schoenbaum was all old-school cop.

  “Detective.”

  “Savoie. Any idea what this is about?”

  “No. You?”

  A shrug. “Nice digs. Never gotten past the porch before.” He grinned. “Couldn’t get a warrant.”

  As they traveled that soaring entry hall, Max’s tension eased. “How’s your little girl?”

  A choky swallow delayed his response. “She’s in school. A dance academy. Got real talent, that one. Didn’t get it from me. Got a cop’s flat feet.” A pause. “She’s doing good . . . thanks to you.”

  “That musta hurt to say.”

  The detective drew up and after a moment, cast a side glance. “Not as much as I thought it would. Marilyn holds you in her prayers, if that means anything to you.”

  “Yes.” A nod. “It does. Thank her for me.”

  Schoenbaum entered Jimmy’s study, looked about as he remarked, “So, this is where the old bastard conducted his dirty deeds and ordered murder for hire.”

  “You don’t expect me to comment on that, do you?”

  The detective chuckled. “Never in a million years.” His fingertips stroked across the big desk as if the residue of bad deeds had left a noticeable stain. “I’ve no beef with you ′less you’re using it for the same purpose.”

  A throaty chuckle sounded from the doorway behind them.

  “I keep him occupied elsewhere.”

  Schoenbaum turned to sweep Max’s mate and wife with an appreciative stare. “I wouldn’t argue if I were him.”

  Max couldn’t blame any breathing male for regarding Charlotte Caissie with fleeting though
ts of mischief. The tall, strong, lusciously defined female inspired them with her bold appearance and brassy talk. Used to trading verbal shots with her male associates, gender remained safely holstered if the males in question wanted to escape injury. As Stan Schoenbaum could painfully attest.

  But tonight, in her Prada and pearls, she looked more elegant hostess than streetwise crimefighter as Max greeted her with a kiss upon one dramatically sculpted cheek.

  “Good choice, sha,” he whispered against her ear. “You’ve cleverly disarmed us both.” With the designer duds to remind Schoenbaum of her off-the-clock status and the pearls, a gift from Max, to bind him in his role as genial host. The slant of bold dark eyes didn’t deny it as she moved to greet their guest.

  “Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”

  “Curiosity is killing me.”

  She waved him into Jimmy’s favorite chair, probably to antagonize the Mobster’s ghost, then sank down on the couch, patting the cushion beside her to bring Max to heel as she addressed the detective.

  “What I’m asking is strictly off the record. I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself. Don’t make me sorry.”

  “You won’t be.”

  Analyzing his puzzled expression, Max believed him and, for the first time, believed in him.

  “Babineau,” she began. “I need everything.”

  An incredulous laugh exploded. “Babineau? This is about Mr. Super Squeaky Clean? That won’t take more than a minute.”

  Cee Cee didn’t smile. “Need to know if that’s still true.”

  Stan slumped back into the Mobster’s throne. “Sonuva—Babineau? He’s like a Fifties TV show good guy.”

  “Make me believe it.” Again.

  Slipping his hand over hers, Max came to her rescue. “He might be caught up in something and can’t find his way out. You know how that is.”

  Schoenbaum’s expression stiffened then relaxed on a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I do. It’s there every day on the streets, whispering to you like a call-girl, making promises, making you feel important, like you can make things happen, that nobody will ever know. Many a good man has fallen into that trap.”