by Bonnie Dee
I followed without invitation, damned if I’d let his silence beat me. The interior of the house was dark and eerie with things I didn’t want to look at too closely suspended in bottles and dried animal bits hanging from the ceiling. I caught a whiff of formaldehyde and rotten meat and some strongly scented herbs.
“I brought you some brownies, sir.” I kept my voice low and respectful as I held out the plate on which I’d arranged treats bought at the deli. Karen had recommended bringing an offering to the old man. Brownies seemed a bizarre choice, but they were my favorite and I couldn’t think what else to offer. Monkey paws and gator teeth?
Turned out chocolate was the right choice. Racette half turned, eyeing the plate, then with a grumbling mutter snatched it from my hand. Pulling back the cellophane, he lifted one of the brownies and sniffed it before biting in. “What you want?”
I had to strain to make out the mumbled words. I didn’t know how long I’d have his attention so I held out the enlarged photograph of the brand. It looked like a black snowflake against the girl’s white skin. “Invictus Malus. What do you know?”
Racette let out his breath with a hiss and a shower of brownie crumbs. “Go away.” He gestured toward the open door.
I would’ve loved to escape the stifling gloom of the shack, but tenacity, while not my middle name, was my nature. “One girl is already dead. More might be in danger. My boss Rick Plazier and I want to try to stop anyone else from dying. What is the Invictus agenda? Do you know why they’re here in New Orleans?” I put a hand on his arm as the old man turned from me. “Please.”
He looked at me again and I met him stare for stare, waiting him out. Finally he sighed and spoke, “Le Mal has existed for hundreds of years. It’s something like a private club that brings together creatures who don’t normally mix, even some humans. All wealthy and powerful.”
“Why are they here now? What do they want?”
“Le Mal is celebrating.” He swallowed another bite of brownie. “This is their big gathering. It includes an auction.”
“What do they auction?”
He raised one eyebrow and gave me a significant look.
“People,” I guessed. Playthings for the bored and immortal to torture or kill.
Racette hugged the plate of brownies to him and waved me away with the other hand. “That’s all. Go now.”
“Thank you, sir.” I crossed the warped floorboards toward the door.
It was a relief to be back outside. The sun was diffused through a thick canopy of green leaves. Coupled with the dense, humid air, it made me feel I was swimming underwater. I hurried down the steps from the house and followed the faint track back to my car. I felt a surge of relief on seeing the battered white Jetta waiting for me like an island of normalcy in the middle of the crazy world I’d just entered. After almost a year, I was still adjusting to the idea of Rick’s shape-shifting. To accept the idea of a host of evil beings—vampires, demons or who knew what all—throwing a massive party and slave auction was too much.
I climbed into the baking oven of my car, turned on the engine and pumped up the AC as far as it would go. Tepid air blew from the vents, cooling my damp skin. A shiver ran through me. It wasn’t from the cold but from the realization of what we were up against. I hadn’t truly believed in the Invictus Malus until I stood in Gerald Racette’s creepy voodoo shack and listened to his deadly serious warning.
Pulling out my cell, I checked in with Mrs. Plazier as promised, thanking her for the lead on Gerald Racette then I put the car in gear and jolted down the narrow trail back to the bumpy road. Cast in mossy green and blue shadows from overhanging tree branches, the road was a long tunnel through the swamp. The car rattled over small holes and I swerved around larger ones.
Suddenly, a figure appeared in the road right in front of the car. It didn’t dart from the underbrush like a running deer. It was just suddenly there. I slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching halt inches from hitting the man. The tall, gaunt figure with pale skin almost glowing in the dim light was the man Angela Addington had met at the restaurant, the man in Rick’s photos. He gazed at me through the windshield with eyes that glowed a dull red.
I threw the car into reverse and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The tires squealed and the car lurched backward over the same potholes I’d so carefully maneuvered past.
DuShayne lifted his hand and the Jetta’s engine stopped instantly.
“Shit!” Reflexively, I continued to press my foot on the gas, pumping it in vain. My heart pounded and my throat was so tight with fear I couldn’t even scream. I turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. The engine was simply dead. As dead as Missy Hardewar.
As dead as I might be very shortly.
I had mere seconds to decide whether to lock all the doors or bail out of my door and run like hell. With a flick of the button on the key chain, I locked the car doors. Thank God the electrical system still seemed to work.
But the gaunt man made another slight movement of his hand and all four locks opened.
“Shitshitshitshit!” Grabbing the latch, I threw the driver’s door open and jumped out of the car, ready to hit the ground running. I intended to, but my legs wouldn’t move. I was literally frozen in place.
“You shouldn’t ask questions about things that don’t concern you.” DuShayne’s voice was as smooth and rich as Godiva chocolate as he advanced toward me. “You may find out more than you wanted to know, Miss Chang.”
Chapter Seven
Rick
When I ran a check on DuShayne’s license plate, it was registered to a Howard Dougherty from Tuscaloosa, Florida. A stolen plate. I called Brian Addington’s work number and he was out to lunch. Then I drove past the warehouse, but there was no activity there. With no other leads, I decided to drive out to Metairie and talk to Missy Hardewar’s parents. I hoped there was something they could tell me about her that would give a connection to DuShayne or point me in a new direction.
I pulled up to the curb in front of the Hardewars’ house, a small ranch in a neighborhood of cookie cutter houses. I glimpsed a swing set and sandbox in the fenced backyard and imagined the dead young woman as a little, pig-tailed girl pumping her legs and swinging higher and higher before jumping off. The image made me even more upset than the abused corpse had. Suddenly, Missy Hardewar was a real person to me.
I sat a moment in the parked car, staring at the neatly trimmed bushes in the little front yard and working out what I could possibly say to the murdered girl’s parents. “Hi. I’m the guy who found your daughter’s body. I have a few questions for you if you don’t mind. Why was I jogging so far off the path? Um.”
The police had questioned me for some time about how I’d happened to discover the girl’s body and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn I was at the top of their list of suspects. Although, it wouldn’t have made much sense for me to have reported finding the girl if I’d had anything to do with the murder.
At last I got out of the car, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A little girl of about ten drew back the curtain on the window beside the door and peered out. The curtain twitched closed and she yelled, “Ma! Someone’s here.”
A moment later the door opened a couple of inches. A thin woman with deep circles under her eyes was framed in the crack. “If you’re a reporter, go away.” Her tone was dull and resigned rather than angry.
“No, ma’am. My name is Rick Plazier. I’m the one who found Missy.”
The door opened another inch. Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed as she scanned me. The woman looked about a hundred years old. “You?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wanted to offer my condolences in person. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She looked wary, ready to shut the door in a heartbeat.
“I also wanted to show you a couple of pictures and see if you recognize the man in them. I’m a private investigator so I’m doing a little exploration on my own. I have a l
ead on this guy but don’t want to bother the police with it unless I know there’s a connection between him and Missy’s death.”
“Let me see.”
I offered a picture of DuShayne that didn’t show his tattooed hand and with Brian Addington cropped out. I had no doubt if Mrs. Hardewar had seen the unusual man before she’d remember him.
She examined the photo carefully before shaking her head. “No. I’ve never seen him.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“Who is he?” She handed the picture back. “Why do you think he’s connected to Missy?”
I paused. “I’m not sure that he is. From what I’ve learned about him, he could be a dangerous man to know. But that doesn’t make him a killer.” It would do her no good to know more than that.
“The police showed me a symbol that was … burned into her body. Does this man have something to do with a cult, or voodoo?”
Local voodoo practitioners were sometimes suspects in killings that seemed ritualistic. It wasn’t fair or representational of their practices at all, but that’s the way it went.
“No. Something else. But it’s not an avenue the police might explore so I wanted to do it myself. If I find anything concrete, I’ll share it with them. Right now it’s only a hunch.”
Mrs. Hardewar looked into my eyes. Hers were red-rimmed but dry, as if she’d cried out all the tears her body could hold. “Thank you for trying to help.”
I nodded and swallowed.
Suddenly she stepped forward and hugged me with arms that felt as fragile as twigs. “And thank you for finding my little girl.” Her voice was low and choked.
I returned her hug. We clung together for several moments before I pulled away, wiping a hand across my eyes.
“I’m sorry about Missy,” I muttered again then turned and walked to my car.
* * * *
On the drive back to the city, I tried to think of the next logical next step in tracking down DuShayne. Then it occurred to me I might be coming at it from the wrong angle. He wasn’t the only member of the Invictus Malus who would be in town for their gathering. There must be other people in New Orleans who’d had contact with this group. Even paranormal beings had to stay somewhere and these sounded like the type who’d want deluxe accommodations.
I spent most of the afternoon contacting one source after another, asking questions and showing the photo. I talked to a voodoo friend of my mother’s, the few shapeshifters I knew and anyone I could think of who had a connection to the paranormal. No one recognized the symbol or DuShayne. Or at least they wouldn’t admit to it.
After I’d exhausted all my sources in the city, I drove out to see Gerald Racette. I’d met him once right after I was bitten when I was searching for any possible cure. I thought I could find the way to his place again. The last orange glow of the sun receded on the horizon as I bounced over rutted roads.
My phone rang. The ID showed it was Angela Addington.
“Mr. Plazier, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to call. I think Brian is missing, maybe kidnapped. I know the police will tell me to wait twenty-four hours. They won’t look for him.”
I pulled over to the side of the road. “What makes you think he’s been kidnapped?”
“When I called his office a few hours ago, his secretary said he hadn’t returned from lunch. I called his cell and it was turned off. Brian never turns his phone off. After what you told me this morning about him possibly being in danger, I’m so worried about him. I never had a chance to warn him about that man, DuShayne. I was afraid to tell him because then he’d know I’d had him followed. If something has happened to him, it’s all my fault.” Her voice broke.
“I’ll be right over.” I did a U-turn and headed back into town, passing by the warehouse on my way to the Addington’s. The big building still appeared to be unoccupied. Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of the Addingtons’ brightly lit house.
Angela’s face was tear-streaked, when she opened the door. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to help, but I had to at least talk to someone.”
Honestly, I didn’t know what I could do either. I’d exhausted all my leads on the Invictus and didn’t know where they might be meeting if not that warehouse. I felt like a loser as an investigator. Real detective work was a lot harder than merely tailing a cheating spouse.
“Maybe Brian had some unexpected business to take care of and forgot to call,” I suggested.
Angela covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. I took her in my arms and held a crying woman for the second time that day.
“We’ll find him somehow.” I stroked a hand up and down her back. Yesterday I would’ve been thrilled to find myself with an armful of Angela Addington, whatever the circumstances. This evening I felt no desire stir as I held her. She might be beautiful, soft and curvy, but she wasn’t Amy.
Amy had been singing in my blood all day long. The simmering undercurrent of attraction I’d always felt for her had been unleashed last night. I could no longer pretend she was just my receptionist and meant nothing to me. But losing control and biting her only proved what I’d feared all along—I was dangerous to be around. I was no good for her.
After a moment’s embrace, I released Angela and stepped back. “The warehouse is empty. I called DuShayne’s phone number from your husband’s records and got a busy signal and I’ve tried every possible connection to this cult I can think of. I’m sorry, Angela, I don’t know what else to do.”
Tears clung to her lashes. She blinked and nodded. “If Brian doesn’t come home by tomorrow, I’ll put in a missing persons report with the police. Thank you for everything. You’ve done all you could. If you’d come with me when I talk to the police so they believe me, that would be helpful.” She turned and the glow of the foyer light caught her blond hair, making it shine like a halo around her head.
Suddenly, I remembered what my mother had said about the Invictus including wealthy humans and I wondered if Brian Addington might be a member of the group. Maybe he was at their gathering right now. For that matter, maybe Angela was in danger of being added to their roster of humans up for auction. She knew few people in New Orleans and didn’t seem to have relatives back in Las Vegas who would miss her if she disappeared. Perhaps that was why Addington had married her and brought her here. Such a lovely woman would surely fetch a high price.
“I could stay with you the rest of the night,” I said. “I mean, outside in my car, watching the house. I’d feel better, knowing you were safe.”
“Please, it’s really not necessary.” She touched my arm and looked up at me with glistening blue eyes. “I’ll put the security system on.”
Although I still felt bad leaving her, I decided it wasn’t too late to drive out to see Gerald Racette. “All right. Call me if your husband comes home. And don’t go anywhere, all right?”
She nodded, said goodnight and closed the door. I waited until I heard the locks click before I walked to my car.
I drove out of the city once more and was soon surrounded by the black velvet night on a road in the bayou. Turning off the air conditioning, I rolled down the windows and breathed in the loamy scent of swamp water. The air was rich with a thousand smells overlapping one another to create a tapestry for the senses. I longed to abandon the car and my clothes and turn into a beast, running through the countryside, nose to the ground.
When I’d been to see Gerald Racette before, he hadn’t offered me a cure, but had told me what to expect as a lycan. For a fee I’d learned that besides the moon bringing on an inevitable monthly transformation, I could also summon the beast at will. Why he thought I’d ever want to do that, I didn’t know at the time. I’d figured if I could call up the beast at will maybe I could also suppress it during the full moon phase. For months I’d tried unsuccessfully to keep the change at bay by sheer will power.
Recently I’d felt the wildness closer to the s
urface, threatening to erupt at unexpected times although I’d managed to continue to control it. There was a constant tug-of-war going on inside me. What had happened with Amy the previous evening was evidence that the wolf might be growing ever stronger.
Thick branches arched overhead, blotting out the stars. I was deep in swamp country now. I turned the headlights from bright to dim and let my preternatural senses take over. Night vision was one of the aspects of being a lycanthrope that I actually appreciated. The turn-off to Racette’s place was as brightly lit for me as if it were under a street lamp. I turned the car down the rutted track and drove as far as I could before parking.
I got out of the car and the bayou flooded my senses. I stood for a moment absorbing all the rich smells and the symphony of noises from the din of frogs to the flutter of bat wings or the passing rustle of a rabbit in the grass. Rabbit. My ears pricked at the sound of running feet and my mouth salivated. Crap! I should have picked up a hamburger or something before I headed out of town. I hadn’t eaten since the croissant and coffee that morning. I cleared my mind of the desire to hunt, chase and kill before walking toward Racette’s shack set far back among the trees.
There were no lights on and without my night vision I wouldn’t have been able to see the house at all. As I climbed the steps, I smelled blood long before I saw it; blood, human excrement and death. I paused three steps from the top, scanning the place for any living creature. There was nothing. Whatever had been here was gone.
I moved carefully across the porch to the open front door and looked inside. Gerald Racette’s dismembered corpse was spread across the floor. Intestines unraveled from his split torso. Limbs were ripped off and tossed aside. Gobbets of flesh stuck to the walls and blood was spattered everywhere. The old voodoo man had evidently pissed off someone in a big way. It wasn’t a stretch to guess this was the work of the Invictus Malus.
