Both men and women clamoured for invitations to Michael’s orgies. Estrada indulged when he had an appetite. Both men were hedonists who found nothing immoral in their lifestyle, though there were times it came back to bite them.
“I confess; I was enamoured of the lady. I suppose I still am.”
“Maybe she’s just skipped town for a few weeks.”
“Perhaps. You know, she’s quite like your own little darling.” As another tray of drinks arrived, Michael stifled a yawn. “God, this espresso is just not working for me. I’ll get a bloody bullet at the club. That’ll help me shoot through.”
“Yes, those can wake the dead.”
Michael stretched. “She’s been frequenting the club the last couple of weeks.”
“Who?”
“The divine Sensara. It’s rather odd come to think of it. I’ve seen more of her than I have of you lately. Hasn’t she mentioned it?”
Estrada shook his head. “We haven’t been speaking the past few weeks. We had a falling out and then I left town.”
“I suspected as much. Pity. She’s quite the exotic creature.”
“No, man. It can’t be Sensara. She came to the club with me once and called it decadent debauchery. She was not thrilled.”
“Well, she is now. Quite thrilled.”
“Really?” Estrada’s eyes narrowed. “Is she coming alone?”
“Yes, but she’s not leaving alone.”
“Sensara wouldn’t do that. It must be some woman who resembles her.”
“Ah, yes. Her Doppelgänger.” Michael lit a cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. “So, you don’t mind if I indulge? Do you suppose a psychic would know—”
“Don’t.”
“You always said there was nothing we couldn’t share.”
“That’s true but—” He couldn’t explain.
There was no way that Sensara would party at the goth bar. It just wasn’t her style. It had been three weeks since the ill-timed spectacle at Buntzen Lake, and still she wouldn’t speak to him. He wondered if she read his emails or just deleted them. He couldn’t understand why she had erected those bloody shields. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her. Spell or no spell. He saw it in her eyes and felt it in her kiss. And it wasn’t just sex. So, what was the problem? If she was embarrassed by the inappropriateness of the setting, she should have forgiven him by now. They were best friends, had been for years, and he wanted her back.
But, there was more than friendship at stake. If Sensara really was frequenting Pegasus, she could be in grave danger, given this new threat of a killer lurking in their midst.
“We need to figure this out before anyone else gets hurt. I mean, if Cole grabbed Jade that’s one thing, that’s personal. And if your brother saw Cole grab Jade, and decided to frame you, that’s personal. But, if there really is a serial killer hanging around Pegasus who’s preying on witches, then a lot of innocent people are in danger.”
“Like Sensara.”
“Yes.”
“I’m game. Have you got a plan?”
“I’ll have one by the time we get to the club.”
“Let us vacate then, compadre. I’m desperate to depart this mundane world.” Leaning over the table, Michael opened a mirrored compact and popped in his red contacts.
“What’s the word for the gatekeeper?”
“Styx. Are you ready to wade in the water?”
5: Daggers in Men’s Smiles
MAGGIE HATED THE DARK. As long as she could remember, she’d always hated the dark. She still kept a nightlight burning despite her mother’s scolding that fear was not a viable reason to waste electricity. Yet, here she was in the blackest pitch, without even a faint glow of moonlight or streetlight. It was as cold and dank and dusty as the Capulet crypt.
Standing with her back firmly wedged against a cold stone wall, she pressed a damp palm over her nose and mouth to shield, what could only be, particles of the dead from being ingested. Beyond the silent ringing in her ears, she searched for sounds in the dark, but could hear nothing save the fierce beating of her own heart. And then, something. Breathing. Not her own.
Startled by the touch of a hand on her shoulder, her first thought was of Father Grace and the strange familiarity of him. Then, she turned her head and saw the most delicious almond eyes: eyes that glowed in the dark, eyes edged in Egyptian kohl, black eyes so brilliant, they illuminated the long tan nose, slightly bumpy where it had been broken. One curling lock of black hair fell casually across his brow. Uneven stubble covered the strong square jaw. And those lips, thick and heart-shaped.
Estrada.
Her hand dropped from her face and she exhaled loudly.
He raised his hand to cup her cheek. Easy love. You’re safe. He had not spoken, yet she heard his thoughts, mind to mind in the silence. Her face melted into the warmth of his palm like a honeyed candle, and as she leaned against him, she felt for the first time in her life that the darkness was nothing to fear. He was her light and she would love him forever.
Rising through the veils of consciousness, she fought to keep him in her bed. His warm thumb caressing her cheek; his lithe body stirring against her own, pressing, desiring, but never entering; his beautiful eyes searching her soul; his lips a mere breath away. With all her power, she resisted the inevitable wakefulness that lurked beyond; and then in the final moments, as those sensations became thoughts, she surrendered. The dream was over. She was alone in her ordinary bed in her ordinary world.
Grabbing her journal from the nightstand, she scribbled what she could remember. But words could not capture his beauty. So she sketched: his luminous eyes in the darkness, the bumpy nose, stubbly jaw, the lips she longed to kiss. Estrada was hers now, captured forever in her imagination. She could conjure him whenever she desired, and she desired him now. Closing her eyes, she kissed the back of her hand.
Startled from her reverie by a metallic crash, she jumped from her bed and raced downstairs praying she would not meet with another shattered clock.
“Bastian.” She was relieved to see his familiar face in the kitchen. His pale complexion and blond spikey hair created a stark contrast to the dark man of her dream. Wearing a turquoise shirt that matched his eyes and pale jeans, he suddenly reminded her of a blue-eyed Justin Bieber. She stifled a laugh. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Yeah, we’ve been missing each other.” He smiled awkwardly and turned away, embarrassment flushing his face. She wondered if her erotic fantasy was visible. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he mumbled to the two pieces of disassembled frying pan he clutched in his hands.
Gazing down she noticed her nipples popping from her tight baby tee. Her baggy pants hung way below her navel. It was obviously too much for poor shy Bastian. Strange how she considered him a brother without even realizing it. Probably, it was because he was always coming and going from her home, and they shared the experience of caring for her father.
“Have you got a girlfriend, Bastian?” It was a random question and he stood momentarily stunned, opened his mouth, but did not speak. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…I’ve seen you here for years, but I feel like I don’t know anything about you.”
Shaking his head, he continued to concentrate on the frying pan. Then he coughed awkwardly and cleared his throat. “Have you got a screw driver? I can fix this.”
She opened a drawer and rummaged around. “I didn’t know you were a handy man too.” Casually, she hiked her plaid pants up to her waist. “Here you go.” As she crossed her arms over her breasts, she felt her taut nipples and her mind drifted back to Estrada. She smiled furtively, knowing it was a crush. There was no way she could ever compete with his sort of women. Still, it left her feeling hot and sexy to think such things. Guys were fun to play with. She’d have to be careful with this one, though. Without Bastian Stone, the Taylor family couldn’t manage a week. In the three years since he’d been coming to care for John, he’d become an integral part of their
lives.
“When I pulled it out of the cupboard it fell apart,” he said, as he worked.
“If it wasn’t for you, this whole place would fall apart.”
One corner of his lip turned up in a grin. “After I fix this, I’m frying a big pan of hash browns for John’s breakfast. Would you like some?”
“Yes, please. Hash browns are my favourite any time of day.”
“I know,” he said, and placed the pan on the stove. “How come you’re home today?”
“Pro-d—”
The crunching of rubber on gravel startled them both. “Who’s that?”
Glancing together out the kitchen window, they watched Father Grace slam the door of his SUV. Remy, who’d been sleeping under the kitchen table, scampered to greet him.
“Why is he here?” asked Bastian. “He knows that I work with John weekdays.”
“Don’t you like him?”
He clenched his jaw and shrugged.
When the doorbell chimed, Maggie walked into the hall. “You can’t go like that,” Bastian said, coming up behind her. Turning, she cocked her head curiously. “I mean…he’s your priest. Why don’t you go change? I’ll see what he wants.”
“Okay.” But she climbed just far enough up the stairs to be out of sight, yet still able to hear. If Bastian had a problem with Father Grace, she wanted to know what it was.
She heard the familiar sound of the front door opening, the scurrying sounds of Remy’s paws on the wood floor, and then the priest’s voice. “Oh, Stone.” His terse tone, so unlike anything she’d heard before, caught her by surprise. “Where’s Maggie?”
“Maggie?”
“Yes. Is she here?” Bastian did not reply. “She’s probably still sleeping.” There was another rather long pause. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Kind of like inviting a vampire in.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know what you—”
“Listen, Stone, you better watch your mouth. I can get you axed from this menial blue-collar job.”
Bastian snorted. “My collar may be blue, but at least I don’t hide behind it.”
“What are you implying?” Bastian said nothing in response; at least, nothing she could hear. “My business here has nothing to do with you. Now move.”
Obviously, Bastian was blocking the doorway. Maggie could imagine him, standing like a sentry and shooting evil looks at Father Grace. But why?
“Shouldn’t you be changing a diaper or something? You’re here to babysit John. So go. Do your job.”
“I don’t take orders from—”
There was a sudden thump, followed by scuffling, and then another thump. Galloping down the stairs two at a time, Maggie arrived just in time to see Father Grace’s fist connect with Bastian’s face. Having seen no one hit before, she was not prepared for the adrenaline that coursed through her body.
Bastian reeled backwards, then caught his balance and shot forward. Blood spurted from his nose. He seized the priest around the throat with both hands and squeezed. Both tall and equally matched in strength, the two men grappled like angry bears.
“Bastian!” she cried, concerned for the young man she loved like a brother. His gaze flickered toward her, and in that second, Father Grace brought up a knee and caught him squarely in the groin. Bastian crashed to his knees.
“That’s better,” sneered the priest. “Back where you belong…kneeling at my feet.”
“You bastard,” he said, swiping the blood from his nose.
“Father! Get out of my house,” she shouted. “How could you—?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“You hit him. I saw you.” Stunned by the lie, she clutched Bastian’s shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like this, Maggie.” Turning, he shook his fist at Bastian, who huddled on the ground. “I’ll get you for this Stone. You just wait.”
“I’ll wait,” mumbled Bastian. And when he raised his face, Maggie saw such misery that it broke her heart.
Narrowing her eyes at the vile priest, she cast her threat. “If you ever hurt Bastian again, I’ll kill you myself.”
≈
“Remind me again why we’re calling on Clayton Cole?” asked Michael, as he shut the door of the BMW roadster with a soft thud. An older model, the 2001 convertible was one of Nigel’s hand-me-downs. Michael had christened her Crimson because she was blood red inside and out, and told everyone he’d chosen this shade as it helped to cloak any evidence of his nocturnal activities.
“Subterfuge,” said Estrada. “If Cole is the webmaster for a Wiccan website, he has access to information about everyone who uses it: names, addresses, propensities—”
“Really?”
“Of course. And if he’s a stalker, undoubtedly he monitors conversations.”
“How do you know these things? You haven’t gone all cybersex on me, have you? The flesh is so much more—”
“No, I haven’t. But I do like to keep up.”
Michael had parked a block from Cole’s apartment building and the two men strolled along the leaf-strewn sidewalk in jeans and leather jackets. It was a misty Saturday and Estrada felt they blended quite well with the busy residents of the East Vancouver neighbourhood. He was feeling confident, even a little cocky. Cruising in Crimson had that effect on him.
“Technology is so mundane,” said Michael.
“Yet useful.”
“If you say so, compadre.”
“Listen. If Jade was chatting with someone online and Cole knew about it, that could be why he followed her to the club. He might also know who she chatted with frequently and who she hooked up with that night.”
“Wouldn’t the police tap him for that?”
“Probably. But considering you’re their number one suspect, wouldn’t you like to know what they know? I mean, it’s possible that Jade was a random grab—wrong place, wrong time—but it’s more probable that she knew her assailant.”
Michael paused, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a flick of his monogrammed lighter. “What if he attacks me?” he asked, releasing a stream of blue smoke into the air. “I mean, the last time the man saw me, I was nuzzling his ex, and my boys threw him out of the club. Moreover, if he’s innocent, he probably thinks I’m guilty.”
“Relax amigo. I’ll protect you. I know fighting’s not your forte.”
“Wonderful,” Michael said, sarcastically. “I know what an experienced street fighter you are.”
“Actually—”
“Hey, is that Cole?” Indeed. Clayton Cole had emerged from the lobby of the building and was striding toward them at a brisk pace, a laptop case slung over his left shoulder. “What should we do?”
As if in answer to Michael’s plea, Cole raised his eyes from the sidewalk in front of him and caught sight of the two men. A panicked look crossed his face, then he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.
“Run.”
Surprised by Estrada’s command, Michael dashed mechanically after Cole. The chase was brief. Within seconds, Cole disappeared down an alley and vanished.
“Thank god.” Michael collapsed on a bench at the nearest bus stop. Holding his chest, he coughed so hard tears wet his face.
“You’re scaring me,” said Estrada. Michael rolled his eyes and burst into another bout of coughing. “Really, man, should I call 911?” He shook his head as the cough subsided. “Don’t you order that tobacco because James Bond smoked it?”
Michael nodded and mouthed the word, “Turkish.”
“I never understood how Bond could smoke two or three packs a day and still catch the bad guys.”
“Fiction,” was the feeble response, followed by another short rasping breath. Then, after reaching inside his jacket pocket, Michael extracted an invisible gun and pointed it at his friend. Estrada laughed and sat down beside him on the bench.
“Sorry man, but you’ll never be Bo
nd no matter how many of those cigarettes you smoke, and you’ll need a real gun if you plan to stop anyone.”
Michael sighed, as the spasm finally ended. “But why run? Guilt?”
“Not necessarily. There are two of us.”
“True.”
“And perhaps he’s heard about you.” Michael was a joy to tease. It was one quality Estrada adored about his friend.
“Heard what?”
“That you’re connected to the mob? Or that you’re a vampire?”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s daytime.”
“Ah, but it’s also overcast and we do live in the Pacific Northwest. Apparently, this is one of the more preferred territories for those of your species.” Michael furled his brow. “I’m amazed you don’t know that. If you’re going to play vampire, you really should keep up with popular culture.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, for one thing, vampires only sparkle now in the sunlight. Their skin dazzles like white marble. In some circles, the whole solar incineration thing is passé.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“My twelve-year-old vampire-obsessed neighbour. You know, the one that wants to meet you.”
Michael smirked. “Ridiculous.”
“It’s true. And they’re much faster than you are…and healthier.”
“How can a vampire be healthy? That implies— Wait. They are still dead, aren’t they?”
“Still dead and still drinking blood, although the good ones are vegetarians.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s true. The vegetarians only drink animal blood.”
“That’s ludicrous.” Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he clutched his cigarette case.
“Oh, please don’t. They’ll be hauling you off in an ambulance, and I don’t want to be the one breaking that news to Nigel.” Michael rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, man, you can’t keep smoking like you do and remain unscathed. No one can.”
“Fine,” said Michael, and slipped his cigarette case back into his pocket. “Though I don’t see how my pathetic life matters one iota in the grand scheme of things.”
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
