Oh, hell no. Harlow shook her head. “I don’t think—”
“That’s a great idea, Dulce.” Augustine stuck his hands over Dulcinea’s and looked at Harlow. “Let’s give it a shot. At the worst, it won’t work.”
Yeah, that was so not the worst that could happen. Feeling like she was about to fry her motherboard, she sat back down and gave him a long, hard look. “Do your best to keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself, okay?” Before he could answer, she looked at Dulcinea. “You work on filtering out anything you feel from him and your own stuff as best you can.”
Dulcinea nodded. “Will do.”
If Dulcinea suspected anything had happened between her and Augustine, she wasn’t letting on. Not like what had happened meant anything. It didn’t. Still, Dulcinea’s seeming lack of awareness gave Harlow a small measure of comfort. “Fine. Let’s try this again.”
She clamped her hands over Augustine’s, the warmth of his skin wicking into hers and making her want to pull back. A second later, the images began.
They were blurring and muted, like trying to read words through a flowing stream of water. She closed her eyes and concentrated the same way she did when she was trying to break into a system.
The images began to focus. A human woman’s face but few details other than pale skin, dark hair and red lips. A flicker of gray skin on gray skin. The taste of ash in her mouth. A hiss. The anger of someone encroaching. The silhouette of a building she recognized as the church from the square in the French Quarter. Darkness. The tang of sweat. Money changing hands, both gray-skinned and white. More darkness. The sound of chanting. Words in Latin. Gray fingers woven through dreadlocks.
Then the human woman’s face again. This time much clearer.
Harlow yanked her hands away. Her own emotions simmered barely controlled, but she would give Augustine the information he was after before she dealt with the rest of what had come through. Avenging her mother meant more to her than who he slept with. “There’s a woman connected with this cross. She’s got dark hair and pale skin. I recognized her from when I was down in the Quarter. She read my fortune.”
“Dark hair and pale skin,” Dulcinea echoed. “Did she use crystals?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it. Giselle.” Augustine jumped up. “Stay here, Dulcinea. Keep an eye on things.”
“You got it.” She stood as he left, looking back at Harlow. “You okay? You look… unsettled.”
Harlow got to her feet and walked toward the door, trying not to let the residual images upset her any more than they already had. What she’d seen shouldn’t matter to her, because it felt like jealousy. And that meant she cared, which she didn’t, so why did she want to put her fist through something? “I’m fine. I’ll be in my room the rest of the night. Don’t disturb me.”
“You don’t seem fine. What happened?”
“Nothing” was the only answer Harlow gave as she left. There was no good way to tell Dulcinea she’d pieced these new images together with the ones that had come through last time and had seen her and Augustine in bed together. It wasn’t Harlow’s place and it wasn’t Harlow’s business.
And it shouldn’t bother her, but it did. Seeing them together made her want to retreat into her online world and get as far away from this reality as she could. Something she was about to do. Losing herself in the Realm of Zauron meant she could ignore the question that kept popping up—should she return here to live when she got out of prison?
Because right now, the only answer she could come up with was no.
Chapter Twenty-five
Augustine had Fenton sending Giselle’s address to his LMD before he’d left the Garden District. The car hummed with the same guttural thrum as the anger coursing in his veins. If Giselle thought she was going to keep secret her dealings with these vampires and the traitorous fae responsible for bringing them into the city, she was damn wrong. Whatever connection Harlow had found, he was going to dig until he hit bone.
He followed the directions Fenton had sent, veering off to drive down Decatur first to see if she was set up at Jackson Square. She wasn’t, so he turned onto Dumaine and cut back around.
He parked the car and got out. At the far end of Orleans Avenue, the spires of St. Louis Cathedral pointed toward the sky. This area was far enough away from the heart of the Quarter that it didn’t suffer from the same crowds of tourists those nearer to the river did. Most of the buildings here were residential, some shotgun-style homes, some older buildings restored and turned into apartments or larger single-family townhomes. Giselle’s was one of those and easy to pick out. The two-story French Creole townhouse was stark white with black trim and a red door. The architectural personification of the witch he was about to tear apart.
“Giselle!” His fist hit the door as he yelled her name. “Open up or I’ll break this door down.” He pounded a few more times.
“I’m coming.” Her muted voice rang out from inside. She pushed the curtain back on the front window to see who it was, then opened the door. Her slim ivory dress was trimmed in black, her hair restrained in the usual sleek ponytail. “What do you want?” Her voice was low, her gaze flicking back behind her. “I have a client.”
He pushed his way in. “I don’t care if the king of England’s here, we need to talk.”
She pinched her hands over her hips and stood in his way. “Come back in an hour.”
He stepped into her personal space and stared down at her. “We seem to be having a failure to communicate. Get rid of your client or I will.”
She sucked in a breath, her dark eyes snapping with anger, then sashayed into a back room. The house’s interior matched its exterior: white walls, dark wood floors, crown moldings and crystal fixtures. Very old Louisiana money, which was exactly how Giselle must want to appear. Legitimate. A moment later she returned, an older, well-dressed gentleman in tow. The man, human, looked familiar as he glared at Augustine, but Augustine couldn’t place him. He was clearly unhappy about the interruption.
Like Augustine cared. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword for emphasis.
Giselle opened the front door. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Andrulis. I’ll call to reschedule as soon as I can.”
“I expect as much.” Mr. Andrulis shot Augustine another look before he left.
Giselle shut the door and leaned against it. “This had better be good. That man pays me a retainer.”
The name finally rang a bell. “Mr. Andrulis? As in Judge Charles Andrulis?”
Giselle frowned. “I’m not answering that.”
“I can’t believe the judge keeps a witch on retainer.”
“Many people do, but I am not confirming he is the judge.” Giselle left the small front sitting room and went into the adjacent kitchen. He followed. She walked around the granite-topped breakfast bar and poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the stove, but didn’t offer him one.
He held his hands up. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Would you like a cup? I have this blend especially made for me, but if you think you could benefit from a healthier monthly cycle, I’d be happy to share.” She took another sip, her eyes twinkling over the rim of porcelain.
He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and moved on. “I need some questions answered. Lying to me is a really bad idea, in case you were thinking about it.”
She tipped her head. “Of course not.”
Like he believed her. He pulled the cross out of his pocket and tossed it onto the counter between them. It landed with a clatter. “You put a spell on that cross. I want to know who you did it for.”
Slowly, she set her cup down, her gaze on the silver cross the whole time. She looked like she might reach for it, but at the last second, she lifted her head. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“You just told me you weren’t going to lie to me and that’s how you start? Bad idea, Giselle. Bad idea. Let’s try again.” He stabbed his finger onto the counter. “Who did you wo
rk the spell for?”
“I said I’ve never seen that cross before. I’m not going to be harassed in my own home. You need to leave.”
“This cross was examined by a fae with the power to read metal and that fae determined the source of this spell was you.” He stepped out from behind the counter so there was nothing between them. “This is your last chance to answer the question. I already know you worked this dark magic at the bequest of another fae. All I want from you is a name.”
Fear tugged at her mouth. “People come to me because I guarantee them confidentiality. You’re asking me to betray that. I could lose my business.”
“And I’m losing my patience.” He took a step toward her, grinding out the words. “Give me the name, or you won’t have a business to worry about.”
She swallowed and her cheek twitched. “Dell.”
“Last name?”
“That’s all I know. People who come for spellwork rarely give me a last name.”
Augustine didn’t know any fae named Dell. Maybe Fenton would. “What did this guy look like?”
She shrugged. “Like you. Like every other fae with gray skin.”
He hated that whole you-all-look-alike-to-me mentality. “Horns?”
“I don’t think so.” Her mouth bunched to one side as her gaze went to his head. “Unless they were cut off.”
He backed up and sighed. “You’ve been so incredibly helpful.”
“Your sarcasm isn’t helping.” She shook her hands out, wiggling her fingers. “I’m trying, all right? Give me a little credit.”
He wasn’t about to give her anything. “What was the spell?”
She smirked. “None of your business.”
“Did you know that as Guardian, I have the power to arrest you and hold you for twenty-four hours?”
“On what grounds?”
“Aiding a traitor. Performing an unsanctioned spell. Obstructing a murder investiga—”
Her smirk dropped. “It was a binding spell, okay? Designed so that whoever touched the cross next wouldn’t be able to drop it.”
“Then how did this Dell handle it?”
“It was kept wrapped in cloth.” She shook her head. “And a binding spell isn’t unsanctioned.”
He shook his head. “Black magic is strictly forbidden by the treaty.”
She scoffed. “You fae, you think everything we do is black magic. A binding spell is gray at best.”
“Semantics. From now on, you record the name of any fae you do work for.”
Crossing her arms, she raised her brows. “Well, that’s pointless intrusion, isn’t it? Anything else? Should I ask for a blood sample, too?” She snorted softly. “Not only can you not enforce that, but what’s to stop them from giving me a false name? Or from going to another practitioner? Honestly.”
He scooped the cross off the counter and buried it in his pocket. “You’re right. I’ll have to put a motion forward to the Elektos that all witches must keep transparent records of their clientele.”
“What?” She dropped her arms. “You can’t do that. This is our livelihood you’re talking about. You’ll destroy it.”
He strode toward the door. “Then I suggest you start looking for an honest job.” Something crashed into the wall beside the door as he was leaving, but he didn’t stop to look. He was okay with Giselle being angry. Black or gray, the magic she’d worked had created a serious roadblock toward him finding who’d killed the tourists, Khell and Olivia.
She’d probably run to Evander and tell him how the new Guardian was ruining her life. Spin her story so that he came out the bad guy. His hand paused on the door handle of the Thrun.
Guess the best solution for that was to get to Evander first.
Before logging onto Realm of Zauron, Harlow opened her cam feed to check on her place.
The interior cams showed that everything looked the same. Not that there was much to see in her tiny apartment. Her desk beside the bed was tidy, the only oddity the empty space in the middle where her laptop usually sat. She tapped on the exterior camera just outside her door. Nothing there, either, but that’s what she’d expected.
Satisfied, she closed the link and tapped the Realm of Zauron icon, ready to level up her warrior mage and finally get the blue sapphire armor she’d been after. She’d missed at least a dozen quests while she’d been here. Her guild probably wondered where she was. She logged in, sending them a message that she’d been gone on personal business and still would be for a while.
A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Harlow?” It was Lally. “There’s a package for you. Messenger says you have to sign for it.”
“Hang on, I’m coming.” She left the laptop up and opened the door. “Lally, just call me Harlow. It feels odd having you call me miss.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I do.”
Lally smiled softly. “I tried to sign for you, but the man said it had to be the person whose name is on the package.”
“Thanks, I’ll take care of it. Where’s Dulcinea?” She didn’t really want to run into more questions at the moment.
“Keeping an eye on the messenger.”
“Figures. Okay, I’ll be right down.” She glanced back. Her gloves lay on the bed next to the laptop, but she could do this without touching anyone. Packages rarely held any significant emotion. Their contents were a different story. She headed down. The front door was open. A messenger in a brown uniform stood waiting. Dulcinea was on the porch, leaning on the railing like she might burst into action if the messenger suddenly turned into a fire-breathing dragon or something.
He had a medium-sized box tucked under his arm. “Are you Harlow Goodwin?”
“That’s me.”
He held out an industrial tablet. “Fingerprint in the square, signature on the line.”
She used her sleeve to wipe off the touchpad before pressing her thumb to it, something she would have had to take her gloves off for anyway, then signed her name.
He handed the box over. “Have a good day.”
“Thanks.” Without a glance at Dulcinea, she inspected the box. The tracking label showed the package had originated in Baton Rouge. She didn’t know anyone there. Maybe a friend of her mother’s? How would they know her name?
Dulcinea came in behind her. “What is it?”
“No idea.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Again, no idea.” She jogged back upstairs as Dulcinea asked yet another question, but cut her off in mid-sentence with the slam of her bedroom door. The desk held a pair of scissors. She sawed through the packing tape and opened the box.
Black tissue paper neatly covered what was inside, a single glossy black sticker embossed with a masculine B holding the sheets together. Her nervous system fired off a warning. She grabbed her gloves off the bed and yanked them on before slipping her finger underneath the sticker and snapping it. The tissue drifted open.
Her breath stuck in her throat as the answer to her biggest burden came into view.
Bundled stacks of brand-new plastic hundred-dollar bills. On top was a card-sized ivory envelope, an H written on it in gold marker.
She picked up the envelope, then slid the blade of the scissors under the envelope’s flap and sliced through it. She shook the card inside out onto the bed. Ivory stock, black embossed B on the front.
She didn’t need to see anything else to know it—and the money—was from Branzino. Was he always this relentless? If so, his actions added clarity to Olivia’s position on him. Harlow stared at the card, her curiosity warring with her desire to never have anything to do with that man ever again. If this was his way of apologizing, she was going to send every single penny right back to him. Sadly. Once she figured out where to send it.
Reluctantly, she picked up the card and opened it.
Dearest Harlow,
Thank you for accepting this down payment towards our agreement. I think you’ll find the sum a very handy amount. I realize
you harbor some reluctance, but I can assure you this arrangement is in your best interests. My influence is far-reaching and the benefits to you far outweigh the disadvantages. You will soon learn how well I take care of my family, and you are family. As proof of this, please log onto your webcam security system. I look forward to our next visit.
Love,
Joseph Branzino
Her hands were trembling, but this time it was out of anger. How dare he think he was going to steamroll her into doing what he wanted. Just because she’d signed for the package didn’t mean she was accepting his money. Or his damn deal.
And how did he know about her webcams? That only cemented the idea that one of her half brothers shared her computer talents. She stuck the card on top of the money and shoved the box toward the foot of the bed, then ripped off her gloves and logged back into her cam feed. After her shaking fingers messed up her first attempt at the password, she used her gift and forced her way into the site, unwilling to wait any longer.
Everything looked the same as it had a few minutes ago. She scrolled through the screens; the front door, the kitchen, all seemed exactly as they had been. Nothing unusual in the living room, either. Last she went to the bedroom/office cam.
As soon as she clicked on the screen, the camera began to move on its own. “What the…” She tapped the tracking button, but the camera didn’t respond, continuing like it was on a preset course.
It pivoted to the left, showing her bed, then zoomed in closer and closer. She leaned toward the screen. Her nightstand was coming into view. There was something on it she didn’t recognize.
Her anger dissolved into muscle-clenching panic.
A framed photograph. A person she couldn’t quite make out.
Someone had been in her place. The person in the photograph was male. She looked closer.
A chill trickled down her spine, icing every inch of her in fear. The man smiling back at her was Branzino.
House of the Rising Sun Page 29
