“For the trade, it’s going to be important you pull this off solo.”
“That’s bullshit. Angel’s life—”
Parker stopped at the door, expression thoughtful. “What about Isabella’s brother? A two-for-two trade sounds even better.”
“She has a brother?”
“Yes, indeed. And he’s quite clever, too. But he doesn’t imprint.”
“Then what does he do?”
“He watches and he whispers.”
“What the hell does that mean? Give me some help here.”
“He transforms into animals, Zach. His shift of choice is birds.”
Zach pictured the feather from Nichols’ office and King’s balcony. He smiled grimly. “Bingo.”
Chapter Fifty-three
4:33 P.M.
Lucy’s was located on Tchoupitoulas Street in New Orleans’ trendy Warehouse District. Micki sat at one of the sidewalk tables, nursing an iced tea and watching the front entrance for Gerard to appear. She’d come prepared: handcuffs, her fake badge, and her personal piece, tucked safely into a shoulder holster.
She’d sifted through her choices, and had decided approaching him directly was her best option. She wasn’t sure exactly how that was going to play out; she’d just have to go with her gut.
He finally exited, with several others from his party. It proved easy for Micki to slip out with them. She followed behind the boisterous group, playing tourist in her New Orleans ball cap and dark sunglasses. No one paid any attention to her, and one by one, the group separated to go to their various vehicles.
Gerard cut through to Fulton Street. More people here, tourists and locals, service workers, and end-of-week colleagues starting the weekend with a cocktail. Perfect, she thought, quickening her pace and sliding her hand beneath her jacket to her gun.
She sidled up to his right side, slid her arm though his and, with the other, reached across her body with the gun. Anyone walking past would see nothing but a woman glued to her man.
“Hello, Keith,” she said.
“Who the hell are—” He bit the words back as realization registered on his face.
She pressed the barrel of the gun into his side. “That’s right,” she said. “It’s a Glock and it’s loaded. Don’t make any sudden moves—I have an itchy trigger finger. Just keep walking.”
“What do you want?”
“Just the answers to a few easy questions.”
“Screw you. Last I heard, you weren’t a cop anymore.”
At least she didn’t have to wonder where he’d gotten that information. “You think that’s a deterrent? Other way around, genius.”
She went on, “I know what you are. And what you can do. And how you use that power to hurt people.”
“And what’s that?”
She ignored his question. “You’re buddies with a woman who calls herself Natalie King. She, like you, masquerades her true form.”
“You’re sounding crazier and crazier.”
“Am I? Good.” She smiled grimly. “I want to know where she is.”
“Who?”
“You know who. Your travelling buddy. She and I have unfinished business.”
“You’re alive,” he said softly. “If I were you, I’d be grateful and disappear.”
“Two problems with that.” She tightened her arm through his. “The biggest—she has a friend of mine and I want her back.”
“That’s not going to happen. And the second?”
“I have a score to settle with her.”
“That’s not going to happen either. Like I said, you’d be smart to pull your stuff together and leave town.”
“That’s what’s not going to happen, Keith. You know where she is. I want you to take me to her.”
“I don’t know what she’ll do to me. She’ll be furious.” A shudder rippled over him. “This wasn’t part of her plan.”
“You think I care about that?”
“You should.” He looked away, then back. “She scares me.”
“Enough with the drama. Where’s your car?”
“Just ahead on the left. The blue Infiniti coupe.”
They reached it. “I’ll need your keys,” Micki said. “Slow, no sudden moves.”
He retrieved his keys from his jacket and handed a keyless fob to her. Gun still trained on him, she unlocked the driver’s side door, pocketed the fob and went for her cuffs. “You’re driving, get in.”
“You don’t want to do this,” he said. “Trust me.”
“You didn’t know I had trust issues? Get in the damn car.”
The moment he was in the bucket seat, she snapped a cuff on his left wrist, the other around the steering wheel.
“Fuck! Really?” He shook his head. “I’ll take you to her. It’s your funeral.”
Micki went around the car and climbed in, angling in her seat to watch his every move and keep the gun trained on him. “Let’s go.”
“Whatever,” he said, sounding tired. “You’re the boss.”
He pulled into traffic. “You’re not the first, you know. To think you could beat her. I used to try, but I gave up.”
“Painting yourself the victim. Cheesy.”
“I am her victim, cheesy cliché or not. Have been since we were kids.”
“Yeah, right.”
He angled onto Annunciation Street, heading toward the Pontchartrain Expressway. “She always took it too far. I like screwing with people, stirring up shit. But her—that wasn’t enough. For her, it’s total devastation or nothing. If I wouldn’t take the extra step, she did for me.”
Micki didn’t respond, and he continued, “Take Sarah, for example. I didn’t want her to die. Messing with her head and emotions was enough for me. Not for Isabella.”
“Your sister’s name is Isabella?”
“You didn’t know that? I call her Izzy.”
“What about you? What’s your name?”
“Anthony.”
Micki narrowed her eyes on him. “Let’s say I buy what you’re selling. How does that work? Sarah Stevens is in love with you. You plant the seed of jealousy by convincing her you’re screwing around with your co-worker, Tara.”
He nodded, looking pleased. “That part isn’t hard. I pick someone who has low self-esteem. Or has been betrayed before. They’re predisposed to being suspicious. It’s hard to trust when you’ve been hurt, you know what I’m saying?”
She did. It had made her a perfect target. A perfect target. Not anymore. “You victimize victims. That’s lower than low. Frankly, you make me sick.”
He took the Expressway on ramp. “At least I don’t make them kill themselves.”
“But she does?”
“Yeah.” He passed a semi at a dizzying speed.
“I’ve got another question.”
“Yeah?”
“You could have done your chameleon thing back there, but didn’t even try. Why not?”
He took the Carrolton Avenue exit, heading south. “That wasn’t Tara who called you earlier.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was saying. “It was Isabella?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yup.”
“Why? I wanted to meet with her. She refused.”
“She wanted it to be on her terms, not yours.” He took a right turn. “She has control issues.”
Gerard rolled to a stop, and Micki became aware of where they were. She took in the nineteenth century two-story, with its welcoming, wide front porch and big front windows. The drapes on those windows were drawn now, but when they were open, Micki knew, morning light tumbled in, bathing the living room in a bright glow.
“Hank’s house?” she asked, voice thick. “What are we doing here?”
“She owns it now. She’s waiting for you inside.”
Mick brought her hand to Hank’s medal, mind flooded with memories of her times here. All of them good until that last, when she’d found him dead. She recalled that day with perfect clarity: the sound o
f water running in the kitchen, Hank sprawled on the floor in front of the sink, gaze blank, skin cold.
And then, keening and clinging to him, the pain almost more than she could bear.
The medal warmed. He was here, she realized. With her.
She might not win this battle, but she wasn’t fighting it alone.
“I told you, Detective,” Gerard said, pity in his eyes. “She plays for keeps.”
“So do I.” Micki opened the door and stepped out. “You stay put. I’ll deal with you later.”
Chapter Fifty-four
5:18 P.M.
Micki started up the short front walk, stopping when she reached the porch steps. She retrieved her cell phone, seeing she had missed two calls and a text from Zach. His text told her to call him—he had important information.
Too late for that now. She texted him back:
Gerard is the chameleon’s brother. He’s brought me to her. Hank’s old house. He’s handcuffed to his car out front.
She hit send and took a deep breath. She had faced this beast already, and she fully understood what it was capable of. She’d be a fool not to be afraid. And she was no fool.
But she wasn’t alone this time. Hank was with her.
She climbed the three steps to the porch. Her cell pinged the arrival of a text. As she expected, from Zach.
Stay put. On my way. Need her alive.
Micki read the last twice. Alive? That complicated things. She’d try, but wasn’t about to make that promise.
She turned the phone to vibrate, pocketed it and crossed the porch. She stopped at the door, memories, one after another, tripping over her. She forced them back, focused on what was coming—and just how bad it might be.
Reaching for the doorknob, she grasped it and turned. As she expected, the door was unlocked. She pushed it open with her foot, hands steady on the grip of her Glock. The TV was on. Just as it had been that day.
Swallowing hard, she stepped into the living room. It was as if she had gone back in time. The furniture, the arrangement of it, was the same. Pictures in the same spots, but the frames, she saw, were empty. She ran her hand across the back of the leather recliner, the same color and style as Hank’s was. But not Hank’s. Not worn and loved. An imitation, pulled straight from her own memories.
Just the way the chameleon had conjured her Uncle Beau—the way he dressed, the sound of his voice, the smell of his breath.
Then, she had been repelled. But this illusion, this conjuring, was sweet.
She shook the thought off. “I know you’re here,” she called out. “And you know why I’m here. Let’s do this.”
“What are you caterwauling about, girl? I’m right here.”
Not Natalie King’s voice.
Micki’s breath caught. Hank’s.
He appeared at the kitchen door, smiling in that way of his, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. She longed to run to him, to throw her arms around him and breath him in. If she did, she would have him back, if only for a little bit.
But he, this, was only an illusion.
It wasn’t going to work, not this time. “Where’s Angel?”
“You going to shoot me, girl? Put that thing away, and come get something to eat. I’ll make you one of my famous ham sandwiches.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen, and Micki followed. Of course the chameleon had chosen to transform into Hank for this last confrontation. Her softest spot. Her biggest regret. How could she shoot the one person who had loved her unconditionally?
The chameleon was wrong about that. Dead wrong.
Micki reached the kitchen. The window above the sink stood open to the cold evening. In the tree beyond the window a bird squawked. It sounded oddly like a laugh.
Micki turned her gaze to the chameleon, standing at the counter, back to her. Making a ham sandwich. Like she was going to fall for this bullshit again.
“Just stop.” Micki firmed her grip on the gun. “It’s not going to work this time. I’m going to capture you and turn you in to the High Council, or I’m going to kill you. Those are your choices.”
The chameleon laughed. The sound was high, brittle and cold, like ice cracking. She turned, transforming into a woman she’d never seen before—somewhere in her forties, with inky dark hair and unremarkable features. Except for her eyes. They were amber, like a cat’s. And mesmerizingly beautiful—liquid gold irises, pupils somehow blacker than black, rimmed by thick, dark lashes.
Gooseflesh raced up Micki’s arms; she told herself to look away but couldn’t. Those cat-like eyes were also profane. Something once sacred had been defiled. Contorted by evil into something never meant to be.
That evil pulsed from the woman; every hair on Micki’s body prickled with awareness of it. And with fear.
Hank’s medal warmed. She swallowed the fear. “Where’s Angel?”
“Someplace secure.”
“Let’s make a trade. Me for her.”
“What fun would that be?” She took a step forward. “Like I said on the phone, I hold all the cards.”
“Do you? Because last I looked, I have the gun, and if you take another step, I’ll shoot you.”
The chameleon laughed again. “I’d tell you to go ahead and do it, but it’s already too late for that.”
Something dark swooped across her line of vision. Startled, Micki fell back a step, head swiveling to see what it was. A crow. It came at her again, snagging her hair with its claws.
Not any crow, Micki realized. Isabella’s brother had shifted himself right out of her handcuffs.
Micki swung at it and missed; with a screech, it circled back, struck again, this time pecking the hand holding the gun. She lost her grip on it and in the next instant, it wasn’t the bird’s claws digging into her flesh, it was Isabella’s.
She gripped her wrists, the way she had that day at King’s apartment. And now, like then, the burning cold radiated from her fingers, curling snake-like up her arms, penetrating her skin, seeming to reach her very marrow.
The chameleon’s eyes glowed. The pupils grew larger, until the irises were little more than a gold band around them. The crow circled and cawed.
Micki shuddered, thinking of Hank. Of him dying this way. Alone.
His medal warmed. His image filled her head. He was smiling at her, gently chiding.
Have you forgotten already?
She wasn’t alone. Hank, his light force.
What had Arianna said? Just trust. And ask for help.
Help me, Hank. I can’t do this without you.
The medal turned hot, but it didn’t burn. Instead it radiated inward, joining the spark within herself. The burgeoning light swirled up and exploded out. A tsunami of light.
The chameleon and crow screeched in unison, the bird diving at her, going for her throat. The medal, Micki realized. It was going for the medal.
From a distance, she heard her name being called.
Zach. It was Zach. She could see him. Leaping out of his car, running up the steps. Parker with him. How could that be?
Micki’s vision dimmed. The chameleon crowed in triumph. The cold was winning. Instead of Zach now, she saw icy tendrils stretching, reaching almost to her wildly beating heart.
Micki pictured Hank, thought of him in this same spot. He could have saved himself. But he had saved her instead.
She couldn’t give up.
A howl rent the air. Of denial. And resistance. She realized it had come from her. Another sound followed, this one of glass shattering into a billion pieces. The shell of cold surrounding her splintered, then broke, the chameleon’s grip with it. Isabella flew backwards, hitting the wall and going down.
The light dimmed. Micki’s legs gave and she sank to the floor. Her world turned opaque. Then went black.
Chapter Fifty-five
5:36 P.M.
“Mick, sweetheart. It’s me, Zach. I’ve got you.”
Zach’s voice. Zach’s touch. So good, they felt so—
&
nbsp; Then she remembered. The amber-eyed woman and the crow. Hank, coming to her rescue.
“You’re going to be okay. You have to be. You hear me? Dammit, wake up!”
Angel. They had to find Angel.
Her eyes snapped open. Zach squatted beside her, expression concerned. She struggled to sit up.
“Take it easy,” Zach murmured, easing her into a sitting position. “You’re pretty beat up.”
“I’m fine,” she said, voice a croak. “The chameleon, she—”
“Parker’s here. He’s got her.” Zach stood so she could see.
Parker did, indeed, have her. Her wrists were secured with what looked like ropes of light. The same material was looped around her neck. The light seemed to vibrate, as if charged.
Parker smiled at her. “Hello, Dare.”
She frowned at him. “Neat trick, those ropes. I could have used those a few minutes ago.”
“Indeed. Believe me, she’s not going anywhere with these on.”
Micki nodded and held a hand up to Zach. He clasped it and helped her to her feet. She wobbled slightly, then righted herself.
“You okay?” Zach asked.
Everything hurt, but she was standing. “Yeah,” she said, “I’m good.” Micki turned her gaze to the chameleon. “Where’s Angel?”
She smiled. “Go to hell.”
Parker looked at her; the ropes crackled, and her body jerked in response. “Play nice, Izzy.”
She cursed him, and the crackling came again, this time louder. And brighter.
“What is that?” Micki asked. “Is it . . . electrical?”
Parker smiled. “It feels like that to her, but it’s just my light force. The darkness in her is reacting to the light. It’s quite uncomfortable.”
“And handy. I’ll never look at my boring, old handcuffs the same way.”
“Come on, Isabella.” He jerked her to her feet. “We’re going to see your friends at the High Council.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Micki retrieved her gun from the floor, and crossed to stand directly in front of the chameleon. She pointed the gun at her head. “Where’s Angel?”
“Whoa, Mick,” Zach said, “we need her. The council agreed to trade her for the professor.”
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